


Belonging

by Reymonkey, wugglyump



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Coping with past trauma, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Canon, Post-Movie(s), Reclaiming sexuality, Recovery, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-06 14:15:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4224861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reymonkey/pseuds/Reymonkey, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wugglyump/pseuds/wugglyump
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-canon romantic/domestic fluff, with a smattering of sex scenes and a smattering of action. This is a private roleplay with a coherent linear narrative, converted to story format. At the end of the movie Max leaves, then wanders back, repeatedly, until he finds himself at home with Furiosa and venturing out sometimes, instead of living on the outside looking wistfully in.</p><p>(Renamed from 'Coming Home' because I realized another fic in here already had that name...)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Circling back again (and again, and again...)

**Author's Note:**

> This is more of a prologue than a proper chapter, hence the widely covered timespan. Future chapters will slow down.

The first months are hard. Furiosa is slow to heal, and stubborn about resting, and not a week after the Wives have tentatively reclaimed the Citadel the lookouts yell out a warning about explosions and black smoke from the Bullet Farm. They wait, and watch, and the fire there burns through the night and into part of the next day.

That evening a lone man shows up on the bike he slipped away on, smoke-blackened and carrying ammunition and the news that there’s been some trouble at the Bullet Farm. He doesn’t claim to have anything to do with it, but Furiosa just wipes a smudge of soot off his cheek and presses her forehead to his, and fights back a smirk. 

It takes the Bullet Farm a long while to reorganize, after that, and in the meantime Gastown caves to an alliance, lacking backup to stand against the Citadel. It’s not the last of their troubles, but it’s a good start. Max comes and goes as he pleases, and Furiosa has no problem with that, though she welcomes him whenever he returns to the Citadel. More often than not he’s warning them or helping to fend off attack. In time, though, their position grows stronger, and when he’s on the road, he may hear rumors of the Green Towers, a new name for a new city. 

Furiosa is, ostensibly, in charge. She’s not really sure where anyone got that idea, because while she works here and makes a suggestion there, she leaves as much of the decision making up to the former Wives as she can. Before she’s even fully healed they have Ideas, and all she does is help them implement them, and make sure none of those ideas are likely to come back to bite them all on the ass. She refuses to be another Joe, and doesn’t want to be even a figurehead, so she works everywhere in their rocky fortress that she can, keeps moving among the people so they’ll see she’s just one of them. They still view her with respect and awe, and that’s awkward, but they’re also willing to approach her with questions and ideas, and it’s probably the best she can hope for.

Cheedo, too, works everywhere. Why she was ever called ‘the Fragile’ is hard to say, now, because she puts her hands beside those of anyone willing to let her help, trying this and that, still seeking her place in their rebuilding. Nobody minds if she isn’t sure where she belongs yet, because she’s helping wherever she tries, and that’s all that matters.

The Dag’s baby is born (a girl, nowhere near as ugly as she feared), and when he first holds her (after she’s put into his arms, over slightly stricken protest), it’s like a man who knows how to hold a child, and sits with her for a long time, occasionally murmuring low and so soft nobody else can make out the words. It’s watching this that Furiosa knows, with a pang in her chest, that he held another baby before. Possibly all the women can guess, from seeing how he cradles the infant like she’s the most fragile and important thing in this world, and they can guess that whatever baby he held before is no longer in this world. He almost seems reluctant to give her back, in the end.

Because Dag is at first unsure how she should feel about it all, and because it’s a new beginning, she names her simply ‘Baby’, and nobody is willing to object. She goes back to working at nurturing the new growing things as soon as she’s able, bringing Baby along in a sling. She has plans, cultivated from the books pulled out of the Vault and the notes and seeds treasured still in the old Vuvalini’s bag. Growing green things and growing a child can be done together.

There is a lot of green needed, the former Wives determined to feed everyone, and with the careful collection and distribution of seeds, tending of soil, and irrigation, plants spread both across the tops of the rocky towers and the open ground below. It’s hard and slow going, teaching people to give up their roles of before and join hands to work together, but the former Wives find allies, in the women among the Wretched, in the Milking Mothers, and even among the confused and hurt remains of the War Boys. Capable, in particular, finds a way to speak to the War Boys that gets them not only listening, but thinking. Some of them leave, for Gastown or the Bullet Farm, but she makes sure they don’t leave angry, and others come from their neighbors, curious to join the new growing place and put their hands to reshaping it. 

In time, Capable grows closer with one of the War Boys, and he is not Nux, and she would never mistake him for Nux, but the memory of him is a bridge instead of a wall between them. She’s good at building bridges between people, and it’s a much needed skill. The alliances are only that, as Gastown and the Bullet Farm find their own feet in the wake of their leader’s deaths, but the mutual welfare that builds from those alliances now is too much to sabotage, and trade between them is growing freer and easier, however gradually. Capable has much to do with that. When she realizes she has a child on the way, she does not fear for it, as she has far more protectors and friends than enemies.

Toast turns her hands and mind to keeping the Green Towers safe. Even if Gastown and the Bullet Farm are their allies, there are other enemies out there, and it’s only a matter of months before they arrive, only to be turned back by strategy and calculated thinking. She prods at Furiosa, and the Vuvalini, and Max whenever he is there, until they have taught her to shoot, field-strip, and service every weapon they possess. She puts the War Boys who are restless still to work patrolling and organizing lookouts, and takes on former Wretched and other volunteers as guards, too. She’s good at it, and pleased to realize that, but once in a while their wandering Road Warrior will make a suggestion in short awkward words and a low rumbling voice, and she listens, and incorporates them as well as she can. The safety of the Green Towers is her job, but they have a lone sentry who comes and goes, and keeps watch on the borders further out than what the lookouts can see.

In time he’s running out of things to bring them, though; first news, then ammo, then more news and warnings and, later, more peaceful things like little plants cradled in hubcaps or other odds and ends, useful machine parts salvaged from old wrecks, unbroken glass bottles and jars, whatever he can find that might be useful. It’s almost as if he feels he needs the excuse to come back, as if simply bringing himself could not be enough.

When he’s there, he stays near the top of one of the Green Towers, even though the climb to get there makes him shake and shiver. His first time back, just setting foot inside the rocky tunnels sent him reeling into flashbacks that had Furiosa pinning him against the wall before he could bring his brain back around to the present. It gets better each time, but ‘better’ in this case means he only spends his time inside the rock glancing over his shoulder all the time, breathing hard and fighting back visions. He does not dare make that journey alone, quietly grateful that every time Furiosa is patient enough to go up with him, to talk to him the whole way until they come out on the upper terraces, and he can breathe again. It’s worth the climb, though. Up near the top of the buttes the green is starting to spill down the sides, and there’s an open welcome for all to come see and help nurture what grows there. He sees the Dag and her Baby often, and when it becomes clear he won’t be able to sleep inside Furiosa helps him put up a lean-to at the base of one of the windmills that dot the terraces, and then blankets begin to appear there, and other small gifts, until it’s clear everyone considers it _his_. 

He’s not sure what to think about having a place in the Green Towers that’s his, even one from which he can see the sky and feel the wind. Mostly he keeps to the terraces and the highest bridges, until the view of the wide desert pulls him away and he has to go, to be with what he knows. They don’t seem to begrudge him that, and every time he makes the heart-thudding journey back down to the garages he finds that Furiosa has tuned up his borrowed bike, and made sure it’s ready with supplies. He tries to find her, usually, and departs with a grateful nod, and returns to the quiet and open space and dust and dirt, eating lizards and bugs to make the rations she’s made sure he has last longer. It’s familiar, to go with nowhere in mind as his destination, and the only voices to keep him company are his ghosts. When he can’t go any further, he finds sheltering rocks to hide his bike and himself and lays down to sleep, but mixed with his dreams are green things and water and women’s voices. Sometimes he wakes thrashing from the usual nightmares, but sometimes he wakes quiet, with a strange feeling of pressure against his forehead, warm and solid, and when he opens his eyes he’s surprised not to find Furiosa there with her head against his. Waking like that always leaves him feeling confused and empty, until he almost thinks he’d rather have the nightmares instead.

Every time he wanders the Wasteland too long with no destination in mind, he finds that he’s circled back until the old Citadel is before him again, and his ghosts don’t seem to mind that at all.


	2. Washing fear away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex scene.

Every few months, or sometimes more often, Max returns, until a year has passed, and then part of another. When Max visits at the end of the cold season, the former wives greets him warmly, and Furiosa talks about water recycling, and shows him the now-flourishing orchards at the top of the buttes. Their new green world still leaves him overwhelmed, quiet and a little clumsy, nodding and grunting and giving awkward little half-smiles to the women’s explanations. He’s happy to let Furiosa show off the place, and he’s a lot more comfortable up high and wherever he can see the sky, since the lower tunnels still make him twitch and lunge at shadows.

The day after, he finds her bathing quietly in the graywater cistern in the orchard. A bath is a rare treat, even now, and she doesn’t look inclined to move from the water even as he approaches, indifferent to her own nudity.

He’s come in like a little piece of the Wasteland, as he always does, full of grit and sand. When he visits he takes scissors to his hair and beard, if the girls tease him about getting shaggy, hacking it all short but uneven. He’ll scrub his face, giving the impression it’s such a luxury to do that much that he’s wary of doing any more. His nods to grooming leave much to be desired. When he comes upon Furiosa bathing, for a long moment he just stands there and stares, stunned as much by the idea of immersing oneself completely in water as much as he is by her nudity. It takes him a long moment to notice that he’s been noticed, and when he does he begins to look deeply embarrassed and tries to edge backwards, even though he knows it’s too late.

“There’s a lot of water, now that no one’s wasting it,” she tells him without actually looking up from the dance of sunlight reflected on the surface. “Now that we’re reusing it when we can. It’s not right to take advantage too often, but every few months...” Shrugging, she peers over her shoulder at him. “We’ll water the trees with the same water, later. You don’t have to go.”

Max pauses, and stands there with his mouth working soundlessly, and all he can actually think now is ‘you’re naked’ but he briefly realizes just how dumb he probably looks, standing there filthy and fumbling for his voice.  
She said he doesn’t have to go, and really, he doesn’t want to. The orchard is one of his favorite places, calm and cool and green with open sky above, and it’s even better when she’s in it too. Since his voice won’t work, he makes his legs work instead, and comes closer slowly to find a nearby seat. Because he has some strange lingering sense of manners from the old world, he tries to look away at the nearby trees, stunty and small, but growing, instead of openly watching her being nude.  
Does it bother her, that he’s dirty? He’s never thought about it before, but he’s thinking about it quite a lot, right now, and feeling strangely embarrassed for a lot of reasons. He shifts on his seat to try to get comfortable despite some ideas parts of his anatomy are having to the contrary.

The truth is, at least in part, that she had to get used to the idea of minimal personal space, clothed or unclothed, a long time ago. She’s lost count of how many War-Boy faces she’s had to rearrange on the road or in the Citadel. And that’s not even taking Rictus into account. He was always a creeper.  
Max...isn’t like that. She’s not sure whether she’s flirting at this point, but she knows she doesn’t mind his presence and in fact she doesn’t want him to go. She splashes a little water on her face, which feels just a bit hot from blushing, and considers the situation. It’s not because she trusts him, though she does, nor because she feels a certain amount of authority, though that’s true, too.  
Something about them just seems to click, inexplicably, and somehow it’s remained low-key and subtle enough to grow at its own pace. That’s...nice. Valuable. After a moment to cool off, she turns to face him, folding her arms on the stone wall of the cistern and resting her chin against them. Her shoulders glisten wet. “Do you want to come in, too? You’re allowed.”

There are some people who, when faced with the apocalypse, humanity on the brink of destruction, seem to have an increased drive to breed. Or at least to fornicate, to follow that base instinct with everything they’ve got. Immortan Joe, clearly, was one of these. Max hasn’t thought much about sex since his wife died, and while the equipment still works he’s long since stopped paying any attention to it. The complete and utter lack of any interest in that is, quite possibly, one of the reasons Furiosa and the wives feel so comfortable around him.  
Once in a while though, since he’s met her, he’s started to have snatches of dreams that aren’t nightmares, and he hasn’t figured out quite what to make of that. He’s even less sure what she’d make of it, if she knew.  
If he undressed and got into the bath with her right now, he’s pretty damn sure she’d know, and he’s not that dumb.  
“In… with you.” It’s not so much that he’s groping for words, this time, but the tone is very careful. He’s making sure, and when his gaze slides over her way, sidelong, his expression has gone sober and a little sharp. When he’s focused, his intelligence shows, and right now he’s sending a very clear and careful message that he wants to be sure of what she’s asking, and that they’re both on the same page here.

Furiosa has done a good job of shutting off her own sex drive. She had to, first in self-defense as a captive wife, then again later on in order to keep control of the War Boys under her command. Freedom has made a difference, though. She’s thought about it, even considered the possibility of another attempt at pregnancy. One where she would want the child.  
But that’s not what this is about, and when she meets his eyes, she can tell he knows that. If nothing else, she owes him honesty in this. Straightening, she nods, terse and calm, then gives him the shadow of a smile. “You come and go, and that’s fine. I hope you know you could stay if you wanted. But you don’t have to promise that, either. I like seeing you.”  
Then she adds, “No one’s going to interrupt.” They can have this, and consider the implications later, if any come along.

Max drops his gaze and looks down at his hands. The right pinky doesn’t unbend anymore, and the last two fingers of his left hand are crooked since getting smashed between a steering wheel and the cab door of her war rig. One of his fingernails got ripped half off a month ago when he was working on the bike’s engine, and there’s dirt under the rest. His hands are rough and clumsy, and metaphorically stained in blood. “Don’t… belong here…” He wishes he did, and he doesn’t like to admit that to himself because that just makes it more painful. “I break things. Destroy them.”  
He continues to consider his hands, and the lap beneath them, gaze trailing down to his knee. Then he fiddles with one of the straps for his well-worn leg brace, absently, at first, then unbuckling it with more deliberation.  
Furiosa is strong, and he’s stabbed her once, and given her his own blood, and she hasn’t broken under his hands yet.

“You’ve fixed a couple things, too.” She tells him, and leaves it at that. She knows by now words are a little too much sometimes. He needs to sort out his own head, and while she can often calm him when he’s on the edge, she can’t help him with choices, and wouldn’t if she could.  
She leans back a moment, dipping her close-cropped hair under the water, then smoothing it back with both hands. Watching him will only make him self conscious, so she’ll occupy herself until he’s ready.  
She doesn’t think he’s going to run away.

He doesn’t run away, and for a long moment the only sounds are the very quiet fiddling with straps and buckles, and finally a quiet clank as he lets the brace drop on the ground. The jacket is a lot quieter, and he folds it neatly and lays it aside. It’s a ragged scrap of what it was, but pinned and hidden inside is an old bronze badge that says MFP on it and once in a while it helps him remember. He cares less about the shirt. It’s just a shirt, ragged and fraying but serviceable. Boots get shucked off with and effort, and socks that are as much hole as they are material. He limps a little, without the brace, but his knee does work well enough for just walking, and he very hesitantly approaches the cistern in just his pants. 

She moves to give him a little room, and holds out her good hand, offering to help him balance. The edge of the cistern is about a foot above ground with sand heaped around it as insulation, and then the remainder is set in the earth, about four or five feet deep though it’s not completely full right now. The water covers her to her sternum at the moment, but when she stands up straighter to help him, the level drops below her breasts.

He lowers himself carefully into a crouch, accepting her hand partway through to compensate for the weak knee, and then very carefully undoes his pants. He glances at her briefly, a last little wordless ‘are you sure this is okay?’, but what he sees in her face says yes, so he squirms and wriggles out, and sits to slide his feet over the edge. His left knee has some mangled scars, part old bullet wound and part bad surgery. There are a lot of other scars, too, more than he can properly remember all of. Plus he’s filthy. He’s also very definitely interested in her, and shifts uncomfortably like he’s apologetic she even has to see that.

There’s nothing in Furiosa’s expression to suggest she minds what she sees. Whatever scars he may have, Max is still unharmed by radiation or the disease it has wrought on so many in the Citadel. She has scars, too, not the least of which is her missing arm, but he’s never given any sign of minding that (unless specifically asking not to be punched from that side counts).  
She helps him into the water silently, reassuring. It’s cool, but sun exposure means it’s not frigid, and in the heat it feels pleasant. Once he’s settled, she still holds his hand, and her expression is warm, kind. They’re in no hurry. “I know it feels strange at first. So much water.”

As he squirms and lets himself drop over the side, he does give a quiet little gasp, startled by the temperature, but in seconds he’s adjusted to that at least. Somewhere else, long ago, he’s had baths, but those memories are a dim blur just beyond his reach. He gapes a little, blinks, and shivers just once. His hand squeezes around hers reflexively. “Mmn.”

They have all the time they need, so she says nothing for several minutes, just holding his hand and letting him adjust. In time, though, she disengages from the clasp and uses her hand to cup water and raise it, letting it drip down his neck and shoulders. “Not so bad, is it?”

He definitely needs a minute, closing his eyes briefly, and swishing his free hand under the water just to feel the moving currents that makes. He closes them again, when she drips water down his neck, but bows his head just a little under the attention, even though they’re roughly the same height. After a moment he cracks one eye open, and there’s the ghost of a smile. “Not yet. Will be by the time I’m clean.”

She gives a soft, throaty chuckle. “Just road dirt and a little motor oil. The plants will love it.”  
Well, maybe they won’t love the oil, but they’re bound to be used to it by now. Anyway, biodiesel is widely used around the Citadel of late. Seeing as how he hasn’t voiced any objections yet, she continues to wet him down, neck, shoulders, then hair, rubbing little circles on his skin to encourage the dirt to wash away.

Since washing does seem to be a priority, he makes an effort to scrub at himself below the water, down his own chest and stomach and, briefly, lower, but he’s definitely enjoying her attention higher up. The water trickling down his neck, or maybe her touch, or both, makes him shiver again. 

Once he’s rinsed to her satisfaction, she switches tactics, running her fingernails gently from the nape of his neck down his spine, under the water all the way to his tail-bone. If there was any doubt before that she minds his reaction to her proximity, that ought to leave none. “Feels good?”

The brand on the back of his neck has healed, a blurred shape that echoes her own, and the tattoo on his back has healed and is marred in one spot by a scar, a streak that marks a bullet he just ducked while helping them deal with trouble almost a year ago, now. It’s just another scar, tended with a clucking tongue by the girls and well healed up. He was twitchy, then about having his back touched. This time he just shivers and arches under her nails, and a little noise escapes his throat, halfway between a grunt and a moan. He’s gone still, eyes closed, but his breathing quickens a little. For once his hair is flattened down, wet and dripping.

“Sshhh,” she’s closer now, legs almost touching under the water. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” Her palm smoothes back up the path her nails just traveled.  
“I’ll stop if you say so. But if you do want more…”

“Want to. Don’t want to hurt you.” It’s a mumble, distracted by sensations, but he means it. He’s not dumb, and he can guess she’s been hurt before, and it would just break him up worse inside to contribute to that. But he definitely, definitely wants more.

“Wouldn’t let you hurt me.” She curls her bad arm around his waist, leaning into him so their bodies brush. “I’m choosing this. I’m choosing you, Max.”

He twitches at the contact, not one of his usual wary flinches, but more like she’s given him a small electric shock and he likes it. One hand grasps at her hip for balance, because brushing up against her has his knees feeling weak. He grunts, eyes drifting shut and opening again, and then older memory and instinct kicks in and he goes in, a little tentatively and clumsily, for a kiss.

She gives a soft sound at the reaction, like a chuckle cut short. Whatever else she’s feeling, fear is no part of it, nor pain. The water is cool, the sun is hot, and the touch of his skin to hers is somewhere delightfully in between, slick and softer than stone or sand. She closes her eyes when he kisses her, tilting her head helpfully and slipping her hand behind his head, stroking wet hair. She seems to have no qualms taking the lead, but she’s strangely almost as clumsy. She hasn’t had many opportunities to kiss.

It feels good.

He’s kissed, before, but his mind has mostly drawn a curtain over his memories from back before the world really went to shit, and it was half a lifetime ago anyway. Max is very much out of practice, and for a minute he struggles to remember what you’re supposed to do about noses and careful of bumping teeth, and then she’s kissing him too and it starts to come back to him a little, getting easier. One hand stays on her hip, even though he’s probably not in real danger of losing his balance, and the other other one slides up to mimic her gesture of cupping the back of her head. It feels like the same touch she uses when bringing their foreheads into contact, but this is even more intimate. His tongue slides over her lips, experimenting.

This is what it’s like when it’s good, she concludes, parting her lips for him and giving a faint intake of breath followed by an approving little moan. It’s good when it’s chosen, when both people like one another, when there’s no fight or disaster looming and they have all the time they need. Oh, she could get to like this very much, and in encouragement, she fits her body against his carefully, one thigh touching his, breasts pressed against his chest.

The hand on her hip clutches tighter, reflexively, because he feels the need to grab onto _something_ , right then. Every instinct that’s hitting him right now has been so long buried that he’d forgotten them, and the rush of adrenaline and endorphins and blood to certain areas is all a little overwhelming. “Mmmnh. Furi…” He’s breathing faster, for no reason that makes sense, and he buries his face against the curve of her neck abruptly. At first it’s just a brief moment of seeking comfort, of stabilizing himself mentally, but then once his face is there it seems like an awfully good place to start kissing.

She’s not sure if that’s a new nickname or if he just can’t finish the rest of the word. Either way, it’s endearing. She gives another raspy moan of approval and tilts her head, combing fingers through his hair. “Ahh...oh, I like that. Do that again, Max…”  
It’s too breathless and sultry to actually sound like an order, but if he obeys, he may feel the flicker of pulse picking up as he kisses her throat.

It’s a little of both, because he’s shortened it in his head before, but he’s only just saying it out loud by accident, distracted. Of course he’s not about to stop kiss along her neck and then up her jaw unless she stops him, and the way she’s running her hands through his hair makes it stick out at all angles again but the touch against his scalp feels so good. Touching and kissing her feels like scratching an itch he didn’t know he had.

“Don’t stop...don’t stop,” there’s a subtle quiver in her voice, either laughter or pleasure or both, because this feels like a release of tension already. Something she’s been waiting for all along, since the first time she sat next to him in the cab of the War Rig. There’s no doubt in her mind she’ll offer this to him again and again, whenever he wanders in out of the wild to see her.  
Her good hand continues with the scalp massage, but the other runs up his back and down again, scars mapping scars and planes of muscle.

That this is only the first of many times would be a reassuring thought, if Max had the presence of mind to think past this moment, right now. Of course he’ll be back, though, because as much as he’s been out wandering the old Citadel has become an unexpected beacon. Every time he’s out there, now, he feels the pull of this place, of her, as if he’s connected by a bungee cord that always pulls him back, to her.  
For now, his world has narrowed to the curve and sinew of her neck and jaw, the feel of her hip and her upper back under his hands, both smooth skin interrupted by the occasional raised line of scars. He kisses, nuzzles, and licks, attentions slow but passionate.

The physical pleasure is enough to distract her by itself. Coupled with the sense of trust, it’s intoxicating enough that it takes her several moments of this to recognize what he’s doing, to sense the emotion behind it. Not just respect and familiarity, but real tenderness, real affection. That’s rarer than water in their world. She mouths his name, but no sound comes out. For a moment her embrace tightens around him, but then she leans back, arching to give him better access to her chest.   
“That feels so good,” she manages in a near-whisper.

“Mmmhmn.” Clearly it’s a noise of agreement, if a distracted one, but now that they’re wrapped around each other she can _feel_ the low rumble of the sound in his chest. He nips at the skin of her neck, then arches and draws away from her just a little so he can start to kiss lower, across her collarbone and very gradually downwards.

She squirms a little, legs tangling with his, and it’s a good thing they’re in the water because at this rate her knees might just start to get weak. Her hand continues to stroke his hair, but the other arm drifts downward to rub his hip and side.

Max has one bad knee to begin with, and his brace is back by the bench, so they just may be starting to slide down in the water already. He’s focused on what he’s doing with his mouth, though, and as he kisses her his hands migrate to her sides, pushing her up a little while he slides down, beginning to sprinkle kisses across her chest, and then experimentally licking one nipple.

She gives a quiet little cry of surprise, and both arms wrap around his neck and shoulders. “That’s...it’s never been like this before. You’re gentle…”  
If she sounds surprised, it’s because she is. Even slightly awed. Gasping for breath a moment, she slides a hand under his chin and tilts his face up. “Let’s get out of the water.”

He looks almost sheepish, when she tilts his face up so that he meets her eyes again, but he’s smiling a little, too. Giving her pleasure makes him happy, and he knows he’s doing a decent job at it from the sounds she makes, and it’s been a very long time since he could revel in the feel of doing something _right_ , of doing good for somebody else. Max nods, and loosens his grip to let her move towards the edge of the cistern, trailing after her in the water. He just may need help out, because his legs are feeling a little iffy right now.

She strokes his face a moment with her fingertips. Her gaze is always fairly intense, but there’s a level of sentiment in it now that he may not be used to seeing. She’s comfortable being kind, but not quite so comfortable with being emotional. She moves toward the edge of the cistern, pauses, and gives him a soft kiss on the forehead, saying nothing.  
Then she hauls herself out of the water and onto the smooth hot stones by the edge, and holds out a hand to help him out after her.

There’s a little delay before he accepts, because suddenly there she is completely exposed and he can see every inch of her, strong and smooth and scarred all at the same time. She’s beautiful, and he’s too busy just plain looking at her to notice her hand until it’s been hanging in the air for just a breath too long. There’s a little duck of his head that’s an apology, then he grips her hand in his and pushes and pulls and his legs do work after all, enough for him to come sit beside her on the stones, one foot still trailing in the water.

She drags her discarded clothes over before she sits next to him, knowing no matter how they end up doing this, someone’s going to want something softer than flagstones under their head. Once she’s at his side, though, she places her palm on his chest, sliding down, then follows with her mouth, lapping up stray drops of water. “No one else looks at me the way you do,” she murmurs between licks. “Even when I have clothes on.” She chuckles.“I like it. Don’t stop.”

“They should.” Not that he really wants anyone else to, because it’s wonderful to think that he’s the only person who might make her feel a certain way, but at the same time he can’t imagine why everyone wouldn’t be able to see how magnificent she is in every way.  
He shivers, and his eyes drift closed when her mouth goes to his chest. He’s much cleaner, now, and it makes for a more obvious contrast, the skin of his face and neck tanned and windburned, fading gradually down his neck and collarbones because his shirt collar is ragged and loose, to a paler chest and torso. His hands and forearms have the same kind of darkening from exposure, but his natural skin tone is lighter.

She’s observing the appearance of his skin, the scars and imperfections, but more than that she’s looking for sensitive spots, mouthing and even biting, gently enough not to bruise. Now there’s something playful in her demeanor, and a tenderness matching what he’s been showing to her as she pulls him close with strong, wiry arms, then slides to straddle his lap. Not in quite the right place, but close enough to tease, thighs rubbing thighs.

There are a lot of scars, places in which there’s more scars than there is unmarked skin. He’s ridden rough across the Wasteland, been too close to more than a few explosions and gunfire. His knee isn’t quite right and she’s probably noticed by now that he’s often slow to hear things on his right, but he is also remarkably lucky in that every piece of him is still very much there, all of it working, more or less, well enough. Compared to the sick and crippled that populate so much of the Citadel, he’s remarkably healthy.   
In turn he’s still trying to take all of her in, hands beginning to wander over her skin again, exploring and stroking with something that borders on reverence. The brand on her neck, her missing arm, her own scars, none of it makes her any less than perfect in his eyes. He grunts softly in surprise as she slides over his legs, and his own arms go around her, and he flashes an awed little grin. He feels lucky, honored even, to be considered worthy of her. The brush of her thigh makes him squirm a little, but he aims another kiss at her lips.

She hates it when the people of the Citadel act in reverence to her. She’s done her damnedest to get them to drop the ‘Imperator’ from the front of her name, and ‘queen’ and ‘allmother’ are just as bad, if in a different way. But the way he’s looking at her, touching her, reverence mixed with affection...she likes that very much. She’ll take it from him, because he asks so little in return.  
Meeting the kiss with enthusiasm, she moans softly again, shifting in his lap. The dampness between her thighs is no longer due solely to the bath. She’d be lying if she pretended there wasn’t some fear of pain as she runs the heel of her hand down his front and curls her fingers around his erection, stroking easily. She’s not afraid of him being cruel, though, or treating her like a possession. He’s not that kind of man and no matter how crazy he’s been or might yet become, she can’t imagine him becoming that kind of man.  
Guiding him, she moves in closer and settles, pushing him into her. She’s hot and slippery and very tight, and for the first second or two he can feel the tension. Then her muscles relax, accepting him until they’re pressed flush together. For a moment, her throat works silently, and then a stuttering moan comes out.

That she is her own woman, owned by nobody, is to him a very integral part of who she is. To take that away from her would make her somebody else, and he prefers her as she is. When she moves to slide closer against him, onto him, he lets her and as soon as he feels her tense he goes utterly still. Barely breathing he waits, patient, and only strokes her side once with a light and gentle touch. His fingers tremble, though, and as much as he’s afraid of hurting her, he’s also a little afraid that the sensations just might make him fly apart into pieces. Then she slides deeper and he sucks in a rush of air and fumbles for her a little. His forehead comes against hers with a small bump, seeking to ground himself with the familiar gesture that he thinks of as _hers_. Now that he’s breathing again, he’s breathing fast.

“God...just...give me just a moment. It’s good and it’s too much at the same time.” The last thing she wants is to stop, though, and she takes advantage of the moment of stillness to lean in and bite the side of his neck, nibble his ear, then kiss and lick over the spots as if in apology.  
It’s less than a minute before she recovers, though it may feel like a long minute to him. Then she rests their foreheads together again, grinning and breathing heavy. “Hold onto me,” she murmurs, fluttering and pulsing all around him, and then she raises up a little only to come back down again and push him all the deeper into her. “ _Yes_.”

There are half a dozen things he means to say in response, in agreement, when she says it’s too much. All that comes out is a grunt, but then she’s probably used to that by now anyway. It was definitely a grunt that meant ‘ _yes_ ’ at least. He’s feeling pretty damn overwhelmed, too, and he really can’t remember the last time he did this and he’s not even sure he wants to.   
He twitches and gives a little groan, at her nibbling, hands shaking against her sides, but he’ll wait as long as she tells him to wait, even if it makes him come completely undone. She moves before that happens, though, and when she tells him to hold on the tremble of his hands eases as if his body is obeying her even better than his mind can, and he slides both hands around her back and pulls, gently, not so tight she couldn’t pull away, but there’s a quiet desperation to sink into her as deeply as he can, to reach and connect somewhere far inside. He’s gasping a little, and his forehead starts to slide down from hers, head dropping towards her neck and shoulder again.

She moves slowly at first, seeking a rhythm that’s comfortable. In the end, she finds it feels best for her just wrapped around him tightly, holding him inside and simply moving against him. Intimate, sweet, but every motion sends sparks all along her nerve endings. “It’s good,” she gasps, alternating between resting her cheek against his hair and throwing her head back to gulp air. “Max...you feel so good.”  
She whimpers and shivers and kisses his cheekbone, still rolling her hips against him. “You okay?”

He nods, gulps air, gasping in time with the rhythm of her pelvis rolling against his. His head rests against her shoulder because he’s not sure he has the strength to hold it up, but the rest of his body seems to know what it’s doing well enough without his conscious command. When he tries to really answer her, it first comes out as a groan, and the second attempt is a gasp again. “Furi!” Everything is white hot and wet, and he feels as if their blood must be pulsing in tune, but that would make perfect sense because there is the same blood in both their veins, now. He gave that to her, a long time ago, and he wonders dizzily if his blood felt as hot running into her as she feels flowing into him now. Words seem like a hell of a stretch, right now, but suddenly one flashes into his mind and it’s the best one he can think of to offer her, a breathy growl between thrusts. “ ** _Yours._** ”

For some reason, it’s his voice that hits her the hardest, and in the best way possible. It’s more than trust, familiarity, intimacy, even devotion. Max is a man of few words, but good god, he does come up with the right ones at the best moments. She’s already whimpering, close to the edge when he calls her ‘Furi’, and she tries to laugh and tell him she likes that nickname; he’s sweet without being condescending, and she could really get used to this kind of treatment. But then, abruptly, the contact and emotion becomes too much, all but boiling in her veins, and yours he says, and means it. She cries out, clenching around him, almost screams except the sound trails off into a thin keening sound.  
And then she’s the one without words, holding onto him for dear life.

It probably doesn’t hurt that while he is not a big man, Max has the voice of one, a rumbling growling bass like an old engine, and whenever he makes any vocalization while they’re pressed against each other she can feel the vibrations of it. He moans again, now, a low trembling sound that leaves him panting after. His hands clutch at her, fingers digging into her skin carelessly this time, because gentleness requires control and he’s not sure he has any control left. Surrendering is easy, though, so he does.

The heat of him inside her is a pulse, a bulletshot without pain, and for a moment Max actually forgets to breathe. He’s silent a long moment, straining and rigid, then lets out a very small breathy grunt. There’s nothing left, he’s empty, everything in him poured into her, and it’s the best feeling he can remember. The climax leaves him loose-limbed and trembling, though, and his grip changes from nearly-crushing to a weak clinging just to keep himself upright. He pants and gasps, and sobs once into her shoulder. 

She makes little whimpering sounds of encouragement as she feels him release, breathless half-words that could be his name or something else entirely. She’s woozy and trembling by the time his orgasm ebbs, but she feels powerful all the same, like she’s been given to rather than taken from. It’s intoxicating.  
She nuzzles his hair lazily, panting slowly easing off, then pets the back of his neck. When she speaks, her voice is a raw whisper but rich with contentment. “Mine, hm?”

“Mmn.” The grunt is a definitive one, a vibration through his head against her shoulder, but after a moment he recovers enough to lift his face, and put their foreheads together again with clumsy care. He’s not sure he’s going to be capable of going anywhere for a while, and just collapsing across the warm stones is very appealing, as long as he can remain entangled with her when he does, but he wants to complete the circuit somehow first, to make her know how grateful he is for what just happened, for all of it. He feels _trusted_ and for once it’s without the old fear that he will let that trust down.  
“Yours. If… th-that’s okay…” His mouth is fumbling, every muscle in him weak and shaky still.

“Yeah. It’s okay.” Her voice is very soft, almost a caress in itself. Flawed he may be, even crazy, but he has no idea how generous he is. He’s given her his blood, his support, and now this, asking nothing but acceptance.   
“I love you too,” she adds, all but inaudible, but their faces are so close he can probably hear her anyway, or read her lips.

Max swallows, and for all the water around them his mouth is suddenly dry. Those are words he never expected to hear again, and it stirs something… but he gives a hard blink and there’s the slightest twitch of his head, and then all his old ghosts are politely silent again, absent. Now is not the time or place. And yet… there’s a nagging little memory, a woman with curly brown hair here and gone in a flash, and he feels strangely grateful for the words her half-memory supplies him with. It’s a gift, and one he’s glad to pass on to Furiosa now. His mouth quirks a little in a weak smile. “‘M crazy about you.”

She blinks at him, then laughs, coughs, laughs again, and says, “Well, that explains so much.”  
He gets a kiss on the lips for his trouble, then she leans, cradling the back of his head so he doesn’t bump it on the stone but doing her best to push him over onto his back. Once he’s down, she leans over him, supporting herself on her good hand, and grins. “Let’s do this again sometime soon.”

He grins back at her, because he knows he’s a lunatic and he’s never made apologies for that, and it’s a terrible pun but it’s also true. Why else would he keep finding himself drawn back here, against every habit and rationale? It’s her he comes back for, every time, even if it’s been hard to admit it.  
Laying down is good, he goes down easy and careful, glad for the cushion for his head, and then lets all of his muscles relax. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt this relaxed, like along with everything else he just poured into her she took his tension, his twitching, fidgeting nerves that leave him stiff and aching all the time. He smiles up at her, and ruffles her short-cropped hair, and his hand is steadier than he expected when he does it. “Mmhn. How soon?” It feels good, her still against him, but he’s going to need some time to work up the energy to do that again.

She tilts her head into the touch, happy to allow him this familiarity. Gingerly, she disentangles their bodies, gasping a little when he slides out of her, but then she stretches out beside him, half pillowed on his chest. “Heh...probably a couple hours of rest would do it for me. That felt amazing.”

Max sucks in air and his back arches a little, as if he’s trying to follow her weakly when she pulls away, but then he collapses gently back with a sigh, relaxing again. He’s warm, solid and steady and calm. He’s a lot cleaner now, too, and overall he doesn’t make too bad of a pillow. His hand seeks her arm, drawing it across his body gently, and he strokes her, lazily, feeling strangely at peace. “Mmm. S’good.”

She gives a soft moan, stretching, and nods against him. “It hasn’t always been bad for me, before. Just so you know. But it’s never been that _goo d_ before, either. Congratulations, you impressed me.”

He gives a nod that could mean anything at all, mostly just that he’s heard and understood. His fingers continue to stroke her arm, up and down, steady now that the adrenaline is ebbing away. “Mn… superlative.”

She actually snorts and giggles softly. “‘Superlative’. Okay. I guess I’ll take anything other than ‘chrome’.” Her fingertips wander across his chest, circle a nipple, then ease down his abdomen and back up.  
“By the way, I like ‘Furi’ but you’re the only one allowed to call me that.”

“I know words. I’m not dumb.” It might sound defensive, at any other time, but right now he’s very mellow and just sounds sleepy. The touch on his nipple makes his eyes drift closed and his breathing hitch just a little, but he nods mildly. “...In front of other people?”

“I know you’re not dumb.” She smirks. “Just reckless.” She sighs and nestles deeper into him. “Yes. Even in front of other people.”

“Mmmh.” It’s a sleepy, contented sound, and his chest buzzes against her ear when he makes it. He’s not about to disagree with her calling him reckless, because he knows when she’s right. Now he’s glad the nickname slipped out by accident, too.

“Falling asleep?” She strokes his sternum, then kisses his collarbone. “I don’t want to leave, but if you need space I might get back in the water.”

“Mmmmmn.” His eyes have fallen closed, but his hand pauses in stroking a moment later, fingers stilling to lightly encircle her arm, a brief and gentle grip. “Don’t have to go.. but don’t go far?”

“Yeah? Maybe I’ll just stay, then.” She gives him a gentle squeeze and relaxes again.

Already his grip is relaxing again, but he smiles and squeezes her gently with his other arm. For once he’s not really worried about nightmares at all. His ghosts have all gone quiet, and her head on his chest feels like home.


	3. No secrets in the Citadel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wives are nosy, and discovery is first comical, then tragic.  
> And then the oral sex.

They doze and cuddle until sundown, and when it starts to cool she rises and helps him locate his clothes, only to steal his tattered shirt and play a brief game of keep-away with it.

He snores, flat on his back, but for once his sleep is dreamless and content. The cool brings him groggily awake, and he’s distracted dressing because he keeps pausing to watch her, smiling goofily. When she steals his shirt he tries to give chase, but without the knee brace he limps, and he’s more interested in getting in groping touches than actually winning back his shirt.

She lets him catch her anyway, laughing and using the shirt as a handle to pull him in closer for a kiss. Eventually they dress and wander down to dinner, Max struggling to wipe the goofy smile off his face all the way down, until it settles into an amiably contented expression that is at least not totally unfamiliar. He follows her like a dog, but that’s fairly normal. What isn’t normal is not realizing that he’s made it through the rocky passageways without even a trace of faded alarm. 

The Dag is the first to notice that he’s cleaned up, and several of the girls express approval. Furiosa just smiles and agrees he cleans up all right, nabbing a piece of bread for him.

Max rubs at his jaw, where he still has stubble, thoughtful. He could, in theory, clean up more. The bread is accepted absent-mindedly, and is gone before he’s even reached his seat. They’ve already learned he will eat anything and everything, a side effect of usually not knowing where and when he’ll get food again. He fills his plate with subtle encouragements from the women, even though he feels secure that he won’t go hungry in their home unless _everybody_ is.

Furiosa settles with her own meal while he’s still loading up, and looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to join her. She isn’t sure when that became a habit, but he flops down beside her companionably. His devotion to her is hard to miss.

After they’ve all settled in, Capable asks her in complete innocence, “What have you been up to today? I sent a Blackthumb looking for you, earlier…” There’s nothing accusatory in her tone, because she clearly assumes whatever Furiosa was up to was more important, and now she’s just curious what that was.

She leans her ankle against Max’s idly, then pauses for a split second at the question. “…Bathing. Did you need me for something?” She refuses to feel guilty. She feels guilty anyway.

The Dag, nibbling at greens, watches her and Max both thoughtfully.

Capable blinks at her. “No… we… got it sorted. I thought _Max_ was bath…ing…” The slow dawning of realization is almost painful to watch, awkward, at the very least.

Max freezes in mid-chew, mouth full. 

The Dag puts down the leaf she was nibbling on and rests her chin in her hand, ignoring Baby beside her, who is carefully smearing bean paste across her own face. Beside her, Cheedo is turning pink.

Furiosa looks up, raises an eyebrow at them as if daring them to say anything, then her lips quirk into a little smirk. “It saves water. Bathing together.” Considering they were both using the wastewater cistern that’s not technically true, but she doesn’t expect them to believe it anyway.

“Oh, I’m sure!” The Dag agrees with mock innocence.

Max chews with slow care and swallows with difficulty, gradually reddening from his ears first, then his cheeks. 

Toast narrows her eyes and studies them both. “…For so long that Lugnut couldn’t find you anywhere?” She folds her arms.

“It’s… okay, really.” Capable is a born peacemaker, but she’s turning a little pinkish, too. “We got the truck rewired fine. You can check it tomorrow.”

“Do you really want to hear the details?” Furiosa asks Toast mildly.

“I just want to know if there’s something we need to know about.” She retorts, still frowning slightly.

Max tries to sink lower in his seat.

She looks puzzled, but puts a reassuring hand on Max’s arm. “ **Do** you need to know we’re sleeping together? It doesn’t change anything, except for between us.”

“If something… comes of it, yes.” Toast is losing steam though, starting to look awkward instead of accusatory. She carefully does not look at Capable, one hand absently on her stomach.

Cheedo makes a little squeaking sound.

Furiosa’s expression clears. “Oh. That’s not what it’s about, and I doubt it’s a concern.”

“Little tiny mad Furiosas wandering around the tower~” Dag murmurs, and nudges Baby’s food-smeared hand away from her own nose. “That wouldn’t be awful.”

“No.” Furiosa says firmly. “Not today. If it becomes a possibility, we’ll talk.”

It’s then that she notices Max has frozen, stock still. He’s generally so quiet in groups that they’re all in the habit of not expecting him to contribute to the conversation, but now he looks like he’s either about to fall into one of his severe fits or bolt from the room. Possibly both.

Toast seems to notice, too, with growing unease. “Sorry… it’s _not_ my business, I guess. Um… Max?”

“Enough.” Furiosa tried to cut off the conversation for a reason. Setting plate aside, she links hands with him. “Come back, Max. You want fresh air?” Her voice drops, soft and reassuring.

He flinches at the touch, but refocuses enough to nod mutely. That he’s still hearing her is a good sign, at least. This time he hasn’t fallen too far.

Toast hunches, radiating guilt, and Capable gnaws her lip. The Dag and Cheedo both turn their attention to Baby for the sake of a distraction.

She coaxes him up and leads him out without glancing back, either in apology or reproach. They’ll talk later, but for now she guides Max out to a sheltered alcove in the cliff face. He’s breathing a little hard, but she coaxes him to sit against the rock and crouches by him, making sure she’s in his glassy line of sight. “Look at me.”

He sinks down, knee brace clicking, but his gaze snaps to her face on command. “I’m stupid.” He whispers hoarsely.

“Didn’t we discuss that earlier?” She strokes his face, grateful to see his focus returning so quickly. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Should’ve thought of it. Should’ve done… something. About that…”

“About what? The chance I might get pregnant? Max… it’s a slim chance. I was one of the Wives once. Never took. Okay? You don’t have to worry.”

He licks his lips, fear and distress still etched all over his face, but gives a slow nod. “I… I can’t…” 

She’s seen the way he holds and plays with the Dag’s Baby, charmed and wistful and happy and sad all at once. He seems fond of the Pups that come to the heights indulging them with tricks and little games and small gifts of food. She’s seen the way he thrashes in nightmares the worst after days he’s been around the children.  
“I know. I’m not asking you to. Just be with me.” She rests her forehead against his, hoping to ground them both.

He shivers, but meets her forehead with his and takes a deep, shaky breath. “But what if-“ Max grunts and cuts himself off deliberately, this time.

“Ssh. We’ll talk about it later. This is still new. Let’s just be happy for once.” It feels like a prayer.

Max tries another deep breath. “I trust you.”

“I trust you, too.” She strokes his hair, still sticking up every which way, even clean. He’s stopped trembling.

He manages a weak smile. “You shouldn’t.”

“No? Why not?” She continues stroking.

“ **I** don’t trust me. Can’t… I forget who I am too easy.”

“And _which_ of us is smarter?” It’s a gentle tease, but he seems ready for that, steady again.

“You.” Max sighs. “My smarts don’t get much exercise.”

“It’ll be okay, Max. I promise.”

“Do I… um… need to apologize to them? For anything?” He likes the girls. He’s just old enough and they’re just young enough that he feels vaguely paternal towards them. That just made the earlier conversation all the more embarrassing.

“No. You didn’t even _say_ anything.” Rocking back on her heels, she shifts and sits next to him, pulling him into a gentle hug.

“Cheedo was… well…” He flounders helplessly, but leans against her and slides an arm around her shoulders, equally tentative.

“They’re grown women. All of them.” She relaxes, relieved. Closeness is still okay, still good, if the way he’s settling against her is any indication.

“You think they’re… okay with… _us_?” He settles into the mutual hug, glad of the contact. He’s touch-starved, even if he can’t always handle the antidote. It seems much easier, with her.

“Yes. They like you, you know. But if they _weren’t_ okay, I’d handle it.”

“I… know they do.” His tone says he’s a little surprised that they do. He knows what Joe did to them, without needing to be told.

“I like you, too.” She kisses his cheek. “Even when you’re a fool.”

“…Always, then?” He’s still feeling shaky, but manages a teasing smile.

“Ha. Yes. Always.” She ruffles his hair. “Feel any better now?”

“Little.” He nuzzles her face.

“Mmm. We’ll get food later. Let’s just sit a little.”

Max nods and grunts, and rubs a hand on his thigh, fidgety still. “Sorry.”

“What for?” She beeps his nose gently, trying to lighten the mood. “It’s only dinner.”

“Being a mess. When it gets in the way.” He goes cross-eyed trying to watch the gesture.

She smiles. “I like you as you are. You’re different.”

Max snorts quietly. “Mess. Blood and fire in my head…”

“You’re a good man in spite of it, where the people we call sane do terrible things.”

He gives her a skeptical look. He once walked away from her in the night to return covered in other men’s blood. He hasn’t told her what he did. She’s never asked.

Her standards are low.  
“Oh, fine. Your reasons are more legitimate than most.” She rolls her eyes and kisses his cheek.

Max considers this, and gives her another skeptical look.

“Now you’re just being difficult.”

“I thought maybe if I keep making this face you’ll kiss me again.” He rumbles.

She laughs and gives him a shove to the ground, and he goes over with a low, rusty chuckle. Furiosa scramble to straddle his chest and pin one arm, leaning over him on her left elbow. Without the prosthetic, she can’t pin his other arm, but he’s not struggling, smiling up at her a little. She smirks back down at him. “Still want that kiss?”

Max nods, beaming up at her.

She gives him a smug look, pleased to have turned his panic attack around so quickly, but leans down and gives him a kiss on the lips this time. “Maybe you’ll get more than that later if you behave.”

“’N if I don’t?” His low rumble is amused.

She raises an eyebrow. “Then I’ll make you beg for it.”  
Privately, she wonders where _that_ came from as soon as the words come out, but it only shows as her cheeks going slightly pink.

Max’s eyes widen and he, too, but then her expression makes him chuckle again. He lifts his free arm to hug her gently, and kisses her mouth.

She sputters and laughs, sinking down to curl around him. “Don’t you laugh at me.” It’s not really a complaint, and she kisses back warmly.

“ _With_ you.” He still looks amused.

“I’ll accept that.” She rests their foreheads together. “You ready to go eat?”

“Mmn!” It’s a more emphatic affirmative. 

“Good boy.” She gets up and helps him up, leading him back toward the dining area. 

He’s a little cautious returning, wary of running into the girls, but he’s also remembered that he’s hungry. It used to be that the halls rendered him terrified, breathing hard and jumping at shadows, now he’s just afraid of an embarrassing encounter.  
Cheedo is still there, cleaning up, but she only gives them a shy, apologetic smile. Max ducks his head in a nod and blushes, but he’ll finish his dinner, cleaning his plate as always.

* * *

Furiosa finds duties to attend to, after Max has eaten and wandered back up to the green and the open air, and she pushes herself to play catch-up after the indulgent afternoon and evening. When she goes up to the orchard again, wrapped in a ragged blanket, it’s late and the air has cooled, and she isn’t sure if he’ll still be awake.

With a couple of lanterns lit, Max is seated near the cistern, where they dallied earlier, scrubbing at his old leather jacket. It must have been black once, dark again now that he’s worked off most of the dust and grit. He looks contented. He looks… different. He’s found a good sharp blade somewhere, and something to lather with, and she’s never actually seen him without stubble but now his face is bare and smooth. It makes him look younger.

She wanders closer, quizzical and slightly awed.

Max hums softly at her in greeting. “Need oil…”

“Oil? What for?” She sits by him, still staring at his face in wonderment. He doesn’t clean up badly at all.

In explanation he holds up the ragged old leather jacket, stitched back together too many times, missing most of one sleeve and half a zipper, shoulder guard glued and riveted on. It’s just starting to crack, in a few spots, but obviously he’s made an effort to preserve it as much as possible.

“Oh. Oh! Yes, we can arrange that.” She reaches up to stroke his face, marveling quietly.

Max nods absently, and his eyes drift shut at the touch. “Wanted to be clean. For you.”

She makes a little strangled sound and pulls him into a fierce kiss.

Max blinks, surprised by the noise, but then melts into the kiss happily. 

“For me?” She mumbles between kisses, nibbling his smooth jaw.

He manages a small nod, but he doesn’t want to dislodge her attentions. One arm slides around her.

“You make me feel like a goddess… but in a good way.” Furiosa nuzzles his neck.

“Wouldn’t be worthy of one.” Max gives a thoughtful pause. “Not… sure I’m worthy of _you_ …”

She draws back a little to look at him skeptically, and he makes a small whimper of protest, tilting his jaw up to expose more of his neck. He didn’t want her to stop. “Mm. Say please?” She grins and nuzzles very lightly under his chin.

He grunts softly, mildly annoyed to be pushed into speech. “Please?”

She pulls him close and goes back to kissing him hungrily. His hand drifts lower, down to her backside, while his other hand gently shoves the jacket off his lap to make room for her. Obligingly she slides into his lap, tugging up the hem of his shirt. “Want you… is it okay?” Somehow she never thought she’d be asking anyone that.

“Mmh.” It sounds like an affirmative answer, and he nods, pulling her closer helpfully and leaning in to nuzzle her ear.

That’s all the encouragement she needs, and she’s comfortable taking the lead now, undressing him gently first, then herself. He squirms helpfully, but doesn’t touch the straps for her prosthetic. When she realizes he’s hesitation, she undoes the straps herself and sets the arm aside. “You really don’t mind, do you?”

Once the arm is off, he starts to help with the rest of her clothes, in between kissing and nuzzling eagerly, but pauses a moment. “I can… there’re…” His mouth works silently for a moment and he looks frustrated, unable to summon up the words he wants. “No babies. Let me…?”

She’s not sure what he means, but nods, trusting. “…all right.” Evidently her prosthetic arm is the last thing on his mind, since he completely misinterpreted her question.

He’s got two working hands, though, and he uses them to slide her off his lap and lie her back gently, taking charge for the moment but with an air of ‘you can stop me anytime’. He looks at her face for confirmation, first, when he starts to unfasten her pants.

She gives him a wry little smile, completely relaxed, and wriggles helpfully as he works them down over her hips.

Max strokes her thighs, once she’s laid bare, and then scoots back between her legs.

She looks surprised, now, and a little puzzled, but lets him do as he wants, reaching down to run gentle fingers through his hair. “Max?”

“…Trust?” He murmurs, settling on his front, on his elbows. He rubs his newly-shaven jaw against her inner thigh.

“I do-ooohh…Mn!” She sinks back with a little gasp, fingers still tangled in his hair.

He grunts softly, and slides his hands under her thighs supportively, then nuzzles and kisses his way up between her legs until his face is buried between them.

Furiosa yelps softly, gulps air, and says in a higher pitch than usual, “Oh, that’s… _very_ okay. Your breath feels hot.” The words come harder, her mind struggling to form them as his usually does.

“Mmmmhm.” The deep sound vibrates through his mouth against her skin.

“Ma-ax!” She sinks back, shivering, and parts her legs further helpfully.

He grins against her and gives another quiet rumble of sound, then an experimental lick, probing gently.

She moans, melting to the point her grip in his hair goes slack. “…yes.”

Max hums softly, settles lower, and begins to explore her in earnest with his tongue. He’s done this before, but it’s also been a very long time, so he’s relearning a little as he goes. From below her his hands shift and grip, tilting her hips as needed.

She tries to stay as still as possible, gasping with pleasure, head tilted back and eyes shut tight. This time she’s vocal, even more so than before, moaning and whimpering wordlessly, with the occasional addition of ‘oh god, where did you learn to _do_ this?’ or ‘There! Right there!’

She’ll have to wait for an answer, because he’s focused on what he’s doing, but her vocalizations are usually answered with a contented hum. It buzzes against her every time, adding stimulation, and he clearly knows it. His hands knead her backside slowly, as his tongue moves faster.

Furiosa writhes a little as she gets closer to climax, almost crying with pleasure, and when at last she hits her peak her back arches and she goes quiet, too focused on sensation to cry out.

He keeps licking, slower but steady to help her ride it out as long as possible.

She gives a few yelps and whimpers as she comes down, possibly experiencing another orgasm, or aftershocks. At last she places her hand on his head again, shaky, and murmurs his name weakly. It’s a signal for rest, and when he looks up at her face she looks blissed out, almost intoxicated, pupils dilated.

Max gives her a grunt, a satisfied little sound, then licks her thigh once and squirms up to lie beside her. He’s panting a bit, and wipes his mouth on his arm, but looks very pleased with himself.

Unable to muster words yet, Furiosa caresses his lips with the tips of her fingers, smiling dreamily. He kisses her fingertips, looking smug, and strokes her side lazily. Despite the one-sidedness of this lovemaking session, he looks content, riding the pleasure of success. It takes her a while to recover before rasping out, “What about you?”

“’M’okay. Tired.” He grins at her, eyes half-lidded and sleepy. “You make good noises.”

She kisses him tenderly. “And that’s all you want tonight? I could reciprocate.”  
Shrugging, his expression is sleepy, and he makes no move to ask anything more of her. The lack of immediate quid pro quo is completely foreign to her. “You’re generous.”

“My turn later.” His head slots gently into the space between her neck and shoulder, and he gives her collarbone an idle kiss. In her mind she turns that into a promise, even as she begins to drift off to sleep, cradled by the warmth of him against her side.


	4. Passing storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max runs into trouble, because doesn't he always.

It is a sorry fact of life that Max is not cut out for a settled life in the Citadel. He’s far more comfortable there than he was at his first few visits, and now that they’re a definite _something_ , Furiosa coming up to sleep beside him has become a habit and that seems to help with the nightmares. There are times he gets restless and his hands start to twitch, and the nightmares begin to pick up and he has too many moments in his waking hours where he stares at things that are not there, and he just has to _Go_. He never says goodbye in the conventional way, but he does always make sure to find Furiosa before he goes, letting her see him off with silence and apologetic looks, or forehead touches, and tender kisses. 

He always comes back, and that’s the important part, and it’s a gradual thing but the spaces between his coming back seem to be getting shorter, and possibly his stays a little longer. When he’s at the Citadel, he’s loyal and tender and loving, shyly getting more open about things in front of the girls because it’s clear by now that they know. He still blushes, when he kisses her in front of people he knows less well such as War Boys or the Milking Mothers. So he comes and he goes and it’s become very obvious that Furiosa is his home base, and they don’t need to worry that he will ever leave them for good.

When he’s gone for a month, then, it’s a definite break in the pattern. Once upon a time it wouldn’t have been unusual at all, but now it’s a stretch, and then even another week goes on, and the highest lookout post reports there’s something way out in the hills, the farthest edge of what isn’t really their territory, but it’s near the borderlands and the farthest spot any lookout post from the Citadel can actually see. There’s dust, or smoke, maybe an explosion but it’s hard to tell what, at this distance. It’s rough land, frequently scoured by dust storms and lightning, inhospitable.

She doesn’t want to restrict his comings and goings, but Furiosa doesn’t like it when he leaves. She always says farewell with a wistful smile and tender touch, and welcomes him back with fierce hugs and kisses. The War Boys, particularly the younger ones, begin to treat Max like an eccentric uncle, someone not quite an authority figure, but trusted and well-liked. Many of them also see him as an accessory to Furiosa, but that’s to be expected with the way he sticks to her when present.

But she doesn’t like it when he’s away for too long. It’s a harsh world out there, and it would be all too likely for him to depart and never make it back. So when he’s gone for a whole month, she gets first cranky, then fidgety and anxious, then depressed. The Widows do their best to reassure her, but it’s not much help until the news of action near the border comes back.

It could be related to him, or it could just be random trouble. Either way, she needs to get out and vent her frustration, so she pulls together a small, light hunting party; Three vehicles, with herself, Toast, and a few War Boys running the mission.

There are no further sightings of anything, vehicles and people impossible to make out at that distance. It will take at least a day to reach the spot, and then they’re held back when a storm sweeps across the rocky cliffs, rendering it dangerous to get too close. That probably won’t help Furiosa’s mood, but the next morning it’s clear again, and they cross the remaining distance at top speed. Going up into the more mountainous terrain is risky, and they have to be on guard because if there is anyone living up there, it’s perfect ground for snipers and ambush. 

The first thing they spot is a big rickety scaffolding structure set on a high point, anchored and bolstered to the rock so well it has evidently survived the storm of the day before. They get fairly close, before the attack comes, but it’s just a few outlying guards who surround them warily, aiming rifles, waiting to see what they want.

Furiosa emerges, gun holstered at her hip. Her new prosthetic arm is slightly sleeker and far lighter, thanks to some ideas Capable came up with. It glitters in the light. Behind her in the largest vehicle, Toast is covering the guards with a rifle, and the War Boys fidget, ready to lunge out to fight or defend, but she’s insisted on an attempt at diplomacy first.

“My name is Furiosa, of the Widow’s Council. We’re from the Green Tower. You’ve chosen an odd place to camp. Are you planning to settle?”

“We follow the lightning.” The voice is booming, but the man that approaches through the rocks is middle-aged, slightly crooked as he leans on a staff, and his eyes are cloudy. His hair has a shock of white amid dark steel grey, and he wears robes, like a self-made priest. He’s flanked by a couple of fidgety teenagers, also in robes. “Do you come to worship?”

Toast gives a little growl of disgust, already not liking the look of this. Furiosa has a poker face, but she’s secretly struggling against her own first instinct of revulsion. A cult is just what they needed here. Nice.  
The War Boys actually look unsettled. Superstition clings to some of the older ones in their ranks.  
“No. We have other priorities. What do you worship?” she answers after a brief hesitation.

“The lightning.” His arms sweeps vaguely skyward, forcing one of his assistants to duck lest she be struck in the head by accident. “It has blessed us, this day-”  
“Yesterday…” The other teen murmurs a whisper, trying to be helpful.  
There’s a man’s scream from deeper in their camp, and a few quieter yells. The voices are unfamiliar, but it sounds like some kind of trouble.

“That’s fine, but--” She tenses at the screams. “What’s that?”  
Three of the War Boys slide out to take places around her, and she looks mildly annoyed. They want to fight; it’s their first instinct.

The people with rifles, too, are distracted by the sound.  
The self-made priest frowns. “Our newest acolyte is still… recovering from the touch of the sky’s power. It makes us or breaks us, and he is remade…” He seems to believe what’s coming out of his own mouth, alarmingly.

She turns her head slowly toward the sounds of the kerfuffle. “Your acolyte. Is this a volunteer?” The suspicion growing in her voice is obvious. “And I mean did he volunteer himself, not whether the sky brought him to you.”

“The sky brings us all things, and we must withstand its tests or be broken by them.” Her tone is getting dangerous, and the man doesn’t even seem to realize it.  
A few shrieks go up in the camp. There is definitely trouble afoot.

That’s enough. She looks over her shoulder at Toast, who brightens visibly, and nods, pleased they won’t be coddling these weirdos today.  
“Tell your men to stand down,” she tells the priest grimly. “Now.”

“You will not **_take_** from us…” His voice grows louder again, a definite attempt at command, but an older woman comes staggering up from the same path he and his assistants did. He’s bent and scarred, and gibbering at nothing. There’s a scar across half her face like branches or vines, pale and twisting, and the eye it covers is dark and purpled, dead.   
One of the men with a rifle giggles at her, inexplicably. It’s a whole camp of lunatics.

Suddenly, she’s in motion, and the activity triggers the War Boys beside her and their companions in the vehicle to action. Toast and a Vuvalini in the car with her aim and pick off the riflemen, while Furiosa darts in low and knocks the priest off his feet with a swipe of her metal arm. Leaving the others to handle the rest, she makes a run into the camp, toward the screams.

The priest is not a helpless old man, but he’s too slow to deal with Furiosa, so his wrath with the staff is faced by Toast and a War Boy, who together manage to incapacitate him.

It’s an unnerving encampment, full of a ragged group of people of all ages, some more able-bodied than others, but a large number of them don’t even seem to register her intrusion. They talk to the air or make repetitive motions or giggle and jabber. One man is sitting carefully plucking out his own hair, methodically, a small tuft at a time. 

There’s a tent at the base of the metal scaffolding that’s clearly the center of the chaos, though, and a man is standing just outside the flap of it cursing softly and dabbing at his arm and his ear, bleeding from both. He rounds on her in alarm, frowns as he sees the forceful manner of her approach, and moves swiftly to bar the way. “Who are you? Nobody sees the new acol-” He’s interrupted by a young man stumbling out of the tent into him.   
“It’s not working and he’s biting through the gag and maybe we should just release him away from the camp and watch him wear himself down from a distance?” The boy speaks quickly, eyes wild with alarm.   
There’s a growling grunt from inside the tent that’s low and deeply familiar to Furiosa, followed by a few thuds.

“Max!” She recognizes the grunt at once. “I’m here.”  
Hopefully he’s lucid enough to recognize her voice. The gaze she turns on the bleeding man is nothing short of lethal. “He’s mine. Move, or I will kill you where you stand.”  
They don’t have long to make a decision, either. She’s ignoring most of the obvious lunatics around her as no threat, but these two are lucid and she’ll tear through them if need be.

“He… belongs to the lightning...now…” The man who seems far more in charge than the priest did narrows his eyes at her, but he’s tense and uncertain, gaze flickering to her metal arm, to her weapons. He may or may not be untouched by whatever seems to afflict much of the camp, but he does seem rational, as does the anxious-looking younger man who looks back and forth between them from the doorway.

All is still within the tent, then there’s a crunch of bone and another yell.

“...Take him, but do us no harm.” The man in charge bargains, then blots at his bleeding ear again. It’s split at the edge, definitely a bite wound, from human teeth. Max is a terror when he’s desperate.

“We’ll see.” She pushes past them roughly. “Max? It’s me, it’s Furiosa.”

He’s twisted up and bound on a carpet inside the tent, shirtless and jacket half off. There’s a fabric gag across his mouth but it’s wet with blood and saliva and loosening already, and while his hands and feet are bound it looks like he started out on a cot and has managed to launch himself halfway across the little room of the tent already. There are a couple more able-bodied people there, alarmed and uncertain, one of them holding a bleeding nose and whimpering. There’s a little smear of blood on Max’s forehead, in fact. It’s not his. He stares at her, feral and only half seeing her, but half seems to be enough to make him pause in his flailing violence.

“He’s more than you can handle,” she tells them. “Even tied up. If you think you can take him and me, go ahead and try. Otherwise, **get out**.”

The youths inside the tent flee, almost eagerly, as does the one who was lingering around the doorway. The man who was bitten earlier watches, still wary and frowning. “Our priest…?”

Max squirms and growls from the floor, and tries to worm his way closer to Furiosa’s feet.

She goes to him and crouches, placing her flesh-and-blood hand gently on his forehead. “Easy, Max. I’ve got you.”  
Immediately she goes about untying his wrists, glancing up at the other man coldly. “My people won’t kill him unless they’re left no choice. We didn’t come to fight, but I don’t think much of your cult.”

Max stills under her hand, breathing hard through the gag, even though his nose is completely free. His gaze darts around, keeping watch in case anyone else might try to approach him again, but apparently she’s okay. 

The man at the mouth of the tent frowns heavily, but he doesn’t look like he’s about to stop her, keeping a rag clamped over his bleeding ear. He startles and half-turns as Toast jogs up, but she scowls at him and stops in the doorway, eyeing Max. “Is… he okay?”

"I'm not sure yet," Furiosa says. "You'd better stay back, Toast. If he bit you he'd be broken up about it later." She’s not worried he'll bite her, taking her cue from the way he’s poised trembling but still under her hand. After his wrists, she undoes the gag and smooths his hair. "Breathe. Stay down until I see if you're hurt."  
To Toast she also asks, "Any casualties? Either side?"

As soon as the gag is off his voice starts up again, first a deep growl, but it’s quick to turn to a grumble-muttered stream of curses, just a low, unending litany of foul language vaguely aimed at the ‘crazy whackjob electric-addled freaks’ to pick a few of his choice terms. It’s more words in a minute than they have ever heard out of him in the span of a whole day, but as coherent conversation goes it doesn’t really count.

Toast blinks, stares a little, and then smirks. “Have to remember some of those. One of the men with a rifle is bleeding bad, but we mostly just disarmed them. I’m not sure these people even know how to use what guns they’ve got… the old man went down easy once we got the stick away from him, might’ve hurt his arm.” She shrugs. As battles go, this one really hasn’t lived up to her expectations. Max is definitely teaching her some new and interesting words, though.

Still cursing quietly, Max scrabbles at the bonds around his ankles, but it’s just fabric and old belts, as if they weren’t expecting to have to tie anyone up. Some of the blood on his mouth is from his own cracked lips, and some from biting his captors, but he seems largely unhurt until the shifting of his jacket shows fresh branching burn scars, twisted and narrow as roots, an echo of the scars she saw on others in the camp.

She lets him attend to his own ankle bonds, more concerned about his physical condition and checking him for signs of dehydration and concussion even as he curses a blue streak. "Ssh. I know. I know. It's over now."  
Once he's untied she cradles the back of his head gently and presses her forehead to his to calm him. The burn is infuriating but she can't let herself feel rage if she wants to soothe him.

To Toast she says, "Let them tend their wounded then but take the guns and keep the priest covered. For now."

It’s not until she pulls him in and touches her forehead to his that the cursing stops, and he sits still for a moment just catching his breath. He’s twitchy and angry, half-feral with rage, but no more dehydrated than usual and to their credit these people don’t seem to have caused him any direct injuries. He even still has his knee brace on.

Toast nods, straightening a little, and gives the bleeding man another glower while she backs up and waits for Furiosa and Max to come out.

Seeing the exchange, the moment of tenderness between them, Max’s main captor backs up further and looks just a little more nervous. They took Max for a lone wanderer, not somebody with someone else who’d come looking for him.

After a long moment to reassure them both, Max grips her shoulder gently and starts to get up. He’s a little unsteady and uncoordinated, drained by his experience, but he’s able to walk with a slight limp the brace usually saves him from. He snarls and snaps at the man when they pass him, making him jump back in alarm. Serves him right.

Furiosa manages not to snarl, but everything in her body language screams fierce protectiveness. She’s angry. Once outside, she snaps at one of the youths from the cult, “You! How did these burns happen?” He metal arm swings to gesture at the marks spread across Max’s chest.  
“…Burns?” The young man blinks, confused, but his gaze goes from her to the still-snarling Max, and he takes a step back.  
“He’s burned?” Toast circles a little to try to peer at him, then flinches back with a slightly hurt look as Max glowers at her and tries to tug his jacket shut over his chest.  
“Looks like electric burns. I have a guess, but tell me I’m wrong.” She pats Max’s side with the arm that’s slung around him supportively. It makes sense that he’d feel defensive right now, vulnerable, but she wants a definite answer.  
“Y-you mean where he was touched by the sky?” The young man tugs at his own shirt to show a similar scar patterns on his own shoulder. Now that she’s looking, she notes just how many of the people here seem to have similar marks, on varying parts of their bodies. Max’s just happens to be fresh. Hopefully the damage has gone no deeper than his skin, because some of the people here seem ‘touched’ more than a little. It’s worth noting that not enough people seem to have the wits to notice what’s going on to offer a front of resistance. She half wishes they would, to give her an excuse to fight their way out of them and do some damage in the process. What she sees of them now just turns her stomach a little, instead.

She purses her lips grimly, looks up at the scaffold, and shakes her head. “Thought so. You’re entitled to be idiots on your own time, but if you abduct _my_ people against their will again, there _will_ be consequences.”

The young man flounders for a further reply, then just nods mutely.  
“He was alone. A road warrior-“ The man Max bit is trailing a safe distance back, and lifts his voice now in protest.

Max whirls and lunges for him clumsily, left knee ready to go out from under him, but she tightens her grip and holds him back. “Max. No.” Her voice is firm but quiet. “He’s had enough.”  
Panting, he settles a little, willing to bow to her restraint.

The man trails them quietly back up the trail, past the edge of the camp, but once there he goes straight to the older priest to check on him. Head in his hands, the man in robes looks bruised and dazed, but more or less unhurt. The teenagers are still at his sides, watchful, while a War Boy stands nearby holding the old man’s staff. At a nod from Toast he lets it fall to the ground with a clatter and rejoins them by the vehicles.

“You know, _he_ still looks sane next to _these_ people…” Toast grumbles under her breath, with a slight nod at Max. Leaning on Furiosa, Max gives no sign at all of hearing her.

Furiosa gives Toast a look of mild agreement and a brief smirk, guiding Max toward the car. “If anyone’s had enough touching from the sky, I’m offering asylum. Otherwise, we’re done here. Leave us be, and we’ll leave you in peace.”

Of the two teens with the priest, the girl looks uncertain, half-rising and hesitating. Her gaze flies to the man with the torn up ear, who is crouched holding the priest’s hand. He’s stopped bleeding at least, but the bites Max gave him look nasty. His expression in response to the girl’s movement is disapproving, authoritarian. Furiosa wonders if the priest is truly the one in charge of this little enclave.

“You could ride with me.” Toast offers, also watching, and the girl leaps up from beside the priest as if she’s been burned, and runs to get behind the darker-skinned girl. She walks in the shadow of Toast’s protection all the way to the car.

Furiosa gives an approving nod. “Hemi, you’re driving.” She calls to one of the War Boys with her. “I’ll look him over on the road. You set, Toast?” 

Toast gives her a thumbs up, and Furiosa notes the girl learned that gesture from Max. She flashes a grin as she lets the girl from the lightning cult into the car, then hops into the driver’s seat confidently.

Max gets in very stiffly, left knee clearly hurting him, and there’s a reluctance there that’s only eased by Furiosa’s hands supporting and guiding him in. She’s not sure he’d get into the car without her right there beside him, but she settles into the passenger seat next to him and coaxes him to lean into her lap. He’s twitchy still, hands fidgeting and body tense against her, caught up in all the little gestures she’s learned to associate with his panic attacks. He’s there, though, gaze clear and in the present. It’s a better sign than she has any right to expect.   
The War Boy, Hemi, looks utterly thrilled to drive, and he’s quick to take the lead as their cars maneuver out of the area in a small cluster. After a few minutes’ drive Max lets out a sigh, and begins to relax against her, eyes closing.  
She helps, tracing circles on his forehead and rubbing the pulse point at the side of his throat. “It’s all right now. Just hang on till we get back.”

After a long time he licks his lips and croaks out an attempt at explanation, “Edge of the borders. Wanted to make sure… not a threat.” There was a time he struggled to find his voice beyond grunts, after being away from them longer than a few days. Now he’s been gone a month and still has coherent sentences, or close to it. He doesn’t look feral, collapsed across her lap. His beard and hair has been kept chopped short, an attempt at holding onto his civilization. 

“Well… you made sure.” There’s a lot more she could say about his adventures back there, questions she wants to ask, but for now she just leans down and kisses his grimy forehead. “Thirsty?”

He swallows and nods, without bothering to open his eyes. “Talk louder?”

She props him up and hands him a canteen, lifting her voice a little. His hearing, she’s noticed, isn’t quite what it could be, but he’s never drawn attention to it before. “I was worried about you.”

Drinking thirstily, he holds the canteen with both hands, twitching and shaky still. His left arm seems weak and stiff, painful to move. What little she can see of the lightning’s burn is to that side of his chest, and there’s no telling how far across his body it goes under the jacket. “Left my bike back there?” The canteen is passed back when he’s satisfied.

“Yeah, sorry. But we can get you a new one. You’ll just have to spend time at the Towers recovering first.”

“Sorry… engine’s been acting up…” He leans against her shoulder wearily, seeking comfort. 

Any vehicle is valuable, even if it was in need of some maintenance, but it wasn’t in sight at the camp and they’re not going back to scour the hills for it. She doesn’t want him to feel guilty over it. Better to think of what lays ahead than what’s been left behind. “The goats had babies a week ago. You should see them. Cheedo’s smitten.”

His head rolls so he can look up at her, brow creased. “Cheedo had a baby??” Capable is the one expecting, close to delivering now. He looks genuinely confused.

“No. The goat. The nanny goat.” She smiles weakly, remembering to raise her voice again this time. “How do you feel?”

“Ear’s loud.” He grouses, paradoxically, but at least he heard her right. “Parts of me.. not working right.” His left hand lifts in example, shaking badly, then drops back into his lap.

“We’ll get you healed. Back home.” She takes his hand and massages it, crooked fingers and scarred palm between her hands. “Does anything hurt?” She should have asked _what_ hurts, because surely something must.

He nods, grunts and shrugs. “Lots. Might… have to cut the brace…”

“It burned you, too?” She looks worried, and glances down at his leg. Under and around the metal supports the fabric is blackened and charred, burned through in spots. 

Max twitches and shudders once, fighting memory, and nods. “Metal… electricity’s drawn to it.” He grimaces. 

“Sssh.” Her massage works up his arm. “We’ll fix it. I’m sorry, Max.”

“’M sorry. Should’ve… shouldn’t’ve let ‘em get the drop on me…” They were crazed, half feral and thrown into a frenzy when the storm approached, mobbing him. If he’d reacted like a feral himself then, he might have stood a chance against them, but instead he was too stunned by their madness. A year before he would have lashed into them and possibly escaped.

“You keep taking risks for us alone.” She kisses his cheek, blunting what’s meant to be a scolding tone.

He shrugs against her, and tucks his head into the space between her shoulder and neck, a favored position when they’re cuddled together. It helps that they’re close in height; she might even have an inch on him, although his shoulders are much broader. 

“Rest, lover. We’ll get you home.”

“…’M a fool.” He mumbles against her wearily, letting his eyes drift closed again.

“You’re my Fool.” She ruffles his hair.

He looks just a little smug, curled up against her, and settles into a light doze. Home is where she is, so he’s already there.


	5. Scars and ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to assess the damage. Sorry for the shorter chapter length.

It’s a long way back, but she holds him steady all the way there, protective. After they arrive and last, Max rouses with a twitch of alarm, but he’s quick to remember where he is, and grumbles over needing help to hobble up the stairs and lifts. His left leg barely wants to hold him, and his whole body seems to have stiffened up on the ride there, muscles moving only with a protest that leaves him grimacing and panting. A couple of War Boys help, and they take him right to Furiosa’s bed, because much of the people in the Green Towers have come to assume that’s where he belongs. He doesn’t seem to object, and it would be an even longer journey to get him up top to his own little shelter in the gardens.  
Capable brings food and water, walking slower these days but still wanting to help. The Dag has herbs, which she brings wrapped in poultices for Furiosa to apply. Word travels fast, through the tunnels of rock.

Max is in the midst of easing off his jacket stiffly when the girls first arrive, and actually tries to pull it back on quickly but his arm is stiff and barely responds. The lightning burn covers the left half of his chest and his shoulder, and extends down much of his arm.

“It’s all right. I’ll handle the brace,” She tells him gently, sympathetic to his discomfort with being so vulnerable, but practical. His wounds need treating, and she’s only got one hand that’s good for gentle work.

“…Can replace the straps…” It’s a last protest, but the whole thing is old and shabby, ready to fall apart. Max gives in and holds his jacket in his lap. These are the traces of an earlier time, and he’s still trying to hold onto them.

“Yeah… it burned through part of your pants.” She undoes the buckles and straps, then removes it and his shoes as the others work on the burns across his upper body.

Max fidgets with his jacket, uncomfortable with so many hands on him, then abruptly lets out a little whimper.

Furiosa pauses, “…Max? Dag, hold off a second.”

He doesn’t flinch from any wound, but instead carefully unpins a flat lump of bronze from the inside of his jacket. Mutely he holds it up with an expression like he’s lost a best friend. Where it was pinned inside the jacket front corresponds pretty well to the center point of the branching burns, where the lightning struck him.

“What are you-“ The Dag starts to scold. “You crazy smeg…”

Furiosa takes his hand. “It might be repairable. Let us work on you first.”

“But… it’s my **badge**!” He whispers.

“You’re the same man with it or without it. Do you want me to hold it for you?”

He nods mutely, more distraught over this than the injuries.

She takes it and tucks it into her shirt. “Try to keep still.”

Capable smiles a little, watching, as if she thinks they’re sweet together.

“…S’posed to say M.F.P.” Max holds still, after that, but he’s wearing the sad-eyed look of distress that he sometimes gets, eyebrows wrinkled up and forehead a mass of lines. His knee is swollen and the metal has left lines of burned flesh, and his hands keep twitching at air, but he’s had worse.

“What’s that stand for?” The Dag softens a little, applying the poultices again.

“He’s a road warrior.” Capable explains simply.

Furiosa cuts his trousers off below the knee to apply the herbs. They can stitch them back together later.

“I was a cop.” He rasps, so quietly his voice is barely there, and he stares at nothing.

“Cop?” Dag whispers, bewildered but picking up on the tone.

“Is that the same as police?” Capable asks, frowning in thought.

Max just nods mutely, all the fight drained out of him for now.

“That explains a lot…” Furiosa says with a sigh, half-forgotten ideas and phrases slotting into place. Serve and protect. “You’re still doing it, aren’t you? But for us, now.”

His mouth works a little, soundlessly, and he gives a sheepish shrug.

“M.F.P. Max, Furiosa’s Police.” The Dag chirps.

Furiosa blushes faintly and shoots her a look.

Blinking and refocusing his gaze from somewhere far off, Max looks at the Dag, and the corner of his mouth manes an upwards twist.

Capable grins. “Well, we’ll definitely have to get that engraved on something for him.”

Furiosa smiles in spite of herself, saying nothing.

Max nods a little, but he seems to be recovering, mentally.

“She missed you,” The Dag tells him conspiratorially. “She’s been grouchy for weeks.”

“Don’t push your luck.” Furiosa tells her, but she’s still smiling.

“…Sorry. Bike trouble… then… **them**.”

“You’re forgiven.” Furiosa tells him.  
Once his wounds are bandaged, the other girls leave, and she sits at the head of the bed. “Better? Try to eat.” He’s always famished, when he comes back from wandering the Wastes. 

Nodding, Max relaxes a little and shifts further back on the bed to lean against the wall, stretching out his leg with a grimace. “…Were you?”

“Was I what?” She ruffles his hair.

“Grouchy. Without me.” His eyes drift shut at the touch.

“I can be grouchy with you, too.” She grumbles, then murmurs more gently, “Yes. I missed you.”

He grins a little and nods, then tilts his head towards her for a kiss.

She leans down and kisses him obligingly, deep and tender. “I’m better with you.”

Max sighs peacefully, picking up his plate. “I’m _me_ , with you…”

“You make me want to live up to what you seem to think I am.”

“You do.” He shrugs, the equation seemingly simple in his mind. How can somebody strive to be what they already are? He’s so confident of who she is, maybe more so than Furiosa is herself.

“Hm.” She smiles and kisses his temple, then sits back to let him eat. “My fool.”

“ **My** food.” Max replies, digging in contentedly. It’s hard to say if he’s making a joke, or if his hearing is still more than a little off.

She blinks, and chuckles anyway. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll give you a bath.”

His eyebrows rise, and he glances over himself and nods. “Could shave, too.” He seems to be trying to gauge if ‘bath’ is a euphemism for something more, in this case.

Furiosa shivers. “If you like.” _She’d_ like him to. It’s possible some of her grouchiness in his absence was from sexual frustration.

“Mmmm…” The low rumbling hum manages to be insinuating, and he doesn’t stop eating, but gives her a teasing glance.

Huffing quietly, Furiosa gives him a scolding look, then cuddles up against his side a little. He seems to like cuddling, with or without sexual overtones, but when he’s finished eating he looks tired. Despite Max’s lethargy, she stays, opting to read aloud to him for a while, then singing a low, sweet lullabye. Curling around her with a contented smile, Max interlaces his fingers with hers, and kisses her hand once or twice. Touched, she sinks down to curl up around him. “My mother taught me that.”

“Never heard it. Ear’s quieter now.” He nuzzles her neck sleepily.

“Good.” She sighs and caresses the back of his neck. “Try to sleep now. I love you.”

“Mm. ‘M yours…” Already his eyes are drifting shut.

“Mine. Maybe I’m yours, too.” She gives him a gentle smile, and strokes his hair as he drifts off to sleep. His hair is, as always, unruly and shaggy, but the face under it is a good face. He is, she thinks, perhaps five years older than her, and even harder used by life, but in sleep his expression is gentle and soft.   
The next morning she’s up before he is, stretching her left arm, which is sore after she fell asleep wearing the prosthesis. It’s one of Max’s better nights, exhaustion and injury making him sleep deep and late, but a few minutes after she’s left the bed he grunts and starts awake warily, gaze darting around to assess his surroundings.  
“Morning.” She answers before even turning around, sensitive to his grunts and hums and his need to orient himself as being somewhere safe, on waking. “How do you feel?”

Max gives another grunt, calming, and rolls stiffly to sit on the edge of the bed with a grimace. His mouth works for a moment while he thinks. “…Like old leather. Cracking.” It’s a surprisingly evocative metaphor.

She moves to help him, concerned by the painful care of his movements. “Easy, easy! You’re still injured.”

“D’we need to go kill them?” She’s not imagining the hopeful tone. He’s grumpy, this morning.

“Not unless they cause more trouble. Believe me, I’m tempted, but…”

Max scowls and sighs. “They’re all crazy. I _know_ crazy.” 

She resists any urge to joke about his expertise in that field. “That’s why we’re not killing them. This place isn’t a war tower anymore. I don’t want a reputation for killing lunatics.”

Max gives a deep grumble, “Stop being smart and reasonable…”

She snorts. “You knew what you were getting into when you fell for me.. Sitting next to him on the bed, a steadying hand still on his back, she asks, “Do you ever remember Angharad?”

He sobers and nods slowly, the haunted look she knows too well creeping in fast. He’s _with_ her, but his mind is full of ghosts.

“She was anything but a fighter. But she saved us both.”

“Should… _be_ here…” He blinks and gives a little shake of his head, clearly fighting to keep his focus here.

“I just thought maintaining peace is the way to honor her memory.” She kisses his cheek, and deliberately changes the topic. “Are you hungry?” He must be, because he’s always hungry, even if he never asks.

Giving a shaky sigh, Max nods, but his expression is distracted still. “…She likes-She… would like that…” He’s never said what he sees, when he’s staring at nothing, but she can guess.

Suddenly her eyes are slightly damp, but she smiles, and reaches to turn his face to hers. “Mn. Tell her I said thanks, sometime.”

His eyes linger, taking a moment to catch up with the motion of his head, and he looks slightly awkward but nods. Once his eyes have locked onto hers the haunted expression fades.

Furiosa rests their foreheads together. “Up to walking a little? Let’s get breakfast.” From the way he’d already moved to the edge of the bed, she knows she isn’t going to be able to keep him here.

There’s the familiar nod and grunt, but as soon as he starts to get up he’s wincing, left knee weak.

She moves to support him. “Capable’s working on a new brace for you.

“It… it still works…” He insists, but it’s hard to say if he means the brace or his knee. She’s seen him walk around without the brace, but rarely, and always limping. He leans on her without embarrassment though.   
It’s a slow walk to the room where the women usually gather for breakfast, and he’s quiet throughout. Nobody pesters him with questions about the little cult, and Furiosa is grateful for that because she can tell he’s in a grumbly kind of mood. They make another slow walk up to the pinnacle of the butte for a bath and a shave. Her focus is nurturing rather than sexual, though, and once he’s clean she gets him settled in the orchard and brings him books to read. He’s limping, but for the most part his leg does seem to hold him. Every move is definitely stiff and sore, but the books are engrossing. Over the next few days she stays with him as much as possible, marveling over the man who sits peacefully in the gardens with his nose buried in a book, yet can turn feral in a heartbeat and try to tear off a man’s ear with his own teeth. Max continues to surprise her at every turn.


	6. Bedtime stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max and Furiosa each tell a children's story, of very different childhoods.

Once Max has settled up in the gardens to recuperate, he does not come down again for at least a week, taking his meals in his little shelter up there or in the orchard. The gardens are not always empty, former war pups and former wretched working shoulder to shoulder with the Dag or Cheedo to tend the plants, and Max limps and hobbles around as needed to avoid them. His tolerance for crowds seems to have taken a step backwards, and more than ever he seeks open quiet spaces. Furiosa has her own duties to catch up on, but she comes and goes and spends as much time with him as she can spare. Seeing his determination to get around despite his injuries, she has Capable’s former war boy, Tracker, fashion a crutch for him.  
In the night, Furiosa comes up to sleep beside him, and wakes him tenderly with kisses and other careful touches, subverting the nightmares that sometimes send him thrashing awake. He seems not to mind being cared for, and spends his days reading and hobbling around the gardens, which also puts him into more frequent contact with Dag and her toddler, Baby.

Dag’s daughter is a very fair blonde, like her mother, but chubby and giggly. With all the former wives, the milking mothers, and a couple of Vuvalini besides for babysitters she has no end of attention. From the first time he saw her it’s been clear Max has mixed feelings about Baby, reluctant to babysit or hold her at times, but too capable or comfortable when he does to be a novice. He’s increasingly charmed by her, especially as she gets old enough to approach him of her own accord. On this morning, Cheedo has brought the baby goats up to the orchard to show him, and with the Dag working nearby, it’s inevitable that Baby should see them and be drawn over to play. Under several pairs of eyes, toddler and kids tumble around each other, and watching her Max is smiling more than they’ve ever seen him smile. He’s settled on the ground, legs stretched out and crutch at his side in easy reach. His limp is worse, and his hearing seems a little more sketchy than it used to be, but he’s healing well overall.

Furiosa comes up in time to catch the scene, and melts visibly, watching from a short distance away. They all look happy. They look like some kind of _family_ , and Max is smiling peaceful and content, the expression resting easy on his face.

“She’s perfect, isn’t she?” The Dag beams, sitting close by to Max. “I didn’t know if I’d like her at all, but I’m so glad I’ve got her. I think I’ll have more someday.”

Max nods, expression turning just slightly wistful. “Perfect.” He echoes, then grimaces as one of the kid goats stumbles over his outstretched leg. Leaning forward he reaches and nudges it onwards.

Furiosa comes closer but pauses as Baby runs up and wraps both pudgy arms around her leg with a squeal. She blinks, then laughs and scoops her up with her good arm. “You’re trouble. Having fun with the goats?”

“Baaa!” The child squirms happily.

Max looks up, and his expression melts a little, seeing her with the girl, then the haunted look starts to creep in.

She spins Baby around, then plops her into Cheedo’s waiting arms.

“That’s right,” Cheedo says, “Goats say Baa!”

Furiosa comes over smiling, but sobers when she sees the looks on Max’s face. It’s not hard to guess what he’s thinking of, even without knowing the details. “Hey…”

The smile returns, weak and apologetic, and he turns his gaze back to Baby. “…Hey. Missed you.”

Furiosa sits beside him and takes his hand, hoping to anchor him in the present. “Wait till Capable has hers. They’ll be all over the place.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, because immediately he starts to look a little distressed. “Have to keep them safe.”

“They have several mothers, War Boys, and Uncle Max. They’ll be fine.”

“…Uncle Max?” He manages a tremulous smile.

“Aren’t you?” She strokes his face.

“I…I could be. Uncle is okay.” Eyes closing briefly, he leans into the touch and sighs.

“You don’t have to explain why it hurts. I can tell.” She scoots closer to lean against him. “ **Is** it okay?”

He nods, then nestles his head against hers. “I haven’t… been good. At protecting people.” His voice goes hoarse.

“You saved me.” She tells him softly.

“Wasn’t sure.” He fidgets and looks down, mumbling. “S’why I came back, first time.”

For a long moment she’s quiet, then says slowly, “I know what it’s like to have part of yourself, of your body, used or taken from you, in this place. As it used to be. You had your blood stolen, then turned around and gave it to me willingly.”

“What about… other people? Taken from you?” This is a hard conversation for him, and he’s fidgeting, gaze going to Baby and Cheedo, still chatting to the toddler in her lap, then to empty air beside them. It’s not the first time she seen him look to empty spaces, clearly seeing _somebody_ there.

She strokes his wrist with her thumb, still holding on gently. “My mother. Friends. One or two War Pups who should have had a better chance.”

“Rather… fail myself than somebody else.” Inexplicably he flinches, then turns his head to look at Furiosa. “But I have. A lot.” His gaze searches her face, guilty and a little desperate.

“But you tried. A lot of people don’t.” She leans closer, eyes closing. “You’re generous. You want to give, and save, and protect. Maybe you don’t always succeed, but you don’t always fail, either. Look around you. This is _your_ Green Place, too.”

Max pauses, not a freeze of alarm or a mental snap because she’d see that in his eyes, but everything else about him seems to have stopped while he gives a very deep consideration to her words. It’s interrupted by Baby, who has gotten away from Cheedo and is starting to clamber across him. He twitches and starts, looking down at her in surprise.

Furiosa smiles at the toddler. “You going to tell Max about the goats?”

“Ma?” Baby grabs hold of his sleeve and pulls on it demandingly.

Max softens, and carefully holds out an arm to invite her into his lap, a rare privilege. “Do you… know the story of the three goats?” Max offering to tell an entire story is definitely new. Furiosa exchanges a look of surprise with the other women, but no one dares interrupt except for Baby, who just giggles and shakes her head happily. She squirms up against his chest and settles there like she belongs, watching him attentively.  
He grimaces a little and shifts her in his lap to keep weight off his left leg, then starts, “Once upon a time…” He pauses there uncertainly, but then continues with a mild shake of his head. “There… were three goats. Big. Medium, and small. And there was… green, across a bridge. A Green Place.”

This is a new story to everyone present but him. The Dag sits wide-eyed, and Cheedo leans against a rock and pets one of the now-sleepy goats.

“But there was a monster on the bridge. Named Joe.” He gives a furtive glance at the women, but continues. “The littlest goat- name was Cheedo. She tried to cross the bridge to get to the Green, and mean old Joe was there and said he was going to eat her up, but Cheedo was clever…” The words seem to come easier now, his deep rumbling voice clearer and more expressive than usual. “She told the monster if he’d wait, there was a bigger goat coming. Her sister. Bigger means more to eat.”

Cheedo’s eyes go wide, then she breaks into a huge grin, exchanging glances with Dag.

“He let her go on, and there came the medium goat. Named Dag. And monster Joe licked his lips and said he was going to eat her all up. ‘N Dag said ‘but there’s a bigger goat coming along, after me.” It is, clearly, a somewhat predictable story. Furiosa worries her lip, trying to hide her grin.

“Big goats.” The Dag mutters to herself happily, and Baby claps.

Max is starting to smirk a little, pleased by the reception of his tale. “So he let Dag go on to the Green Place and there came the biggest goat he’d ever seen. Named Furi. Monster Joe was too hungry to wait anymore and **roared** he was going to eat her up. And the big goat put down her head and charged and **_BOOSH!_** ” He spreads his hand in the air, an explosive gesture. “She pushed the monster Joe off the bridge and he fell and he died. So all three goats got to the Green Place safe.” He pauses a moment and adds, “And with no monster all the other goats could come cross the bridge to the Green Place too.”

“Kaboom.” Dag giggles to Cheedo, who laughs, nodding.

Furiosa hugs him lightly, and Baby squeals, “Boof! Baah!”

Max grins a little and gestures again. “Boosh! Kaboom!”

This dissolves into a round of giggles and them all trying to teach the toddler to pronounce ‘Boosh’ properly. Toast emerges in the middle of it all, and Cheedo relays the story in low tones as they play with baby. Most of his words for the day exhausted, Max settles contentedly into making sound effects and gestures, but he looks happy.

Eventually the other women retreat to nap and eat, but Furiosa has fruit and milk to share with him for dinner. They lounge in his padded shelter together, watching the sunset. Tonight he’s relaxed, tension unspooled in his earlier storytelling. One arm around her and head on her shoulder, Max sighs contentedly. For a long while Furiosa is quiet, just cuddling, but at last she murmurs, “Max? If you’re not _sure_ about ‘no babies’, I wouldn’t mind trying again someday.”

The sudden tension is subtle, but she can feel it tighten across his shoulders against her. He makes a meaningless little hum, buying time while he forces himself to relax again before answering. “I… _like_ kids. But every time, I see…” He trails off, going quiet without any hint of panic or hallucination, but no sign the end of that sentence is coming, either.

“I know. I’m not insisting. I don’t even know if I can. I was young before. Probably too young. I’d like to think I failed to conceive out of spite, though.”

“I’m not… getting younger…” He looks down at his slightly mangled hands and stretched out legs, and grunts. “Scared. Scared of everything.”

“But less scared here, with me.”

Max grunts and gives another nod. “Because you’re stronger than me.”

“If you say so.” She shrugs and squeezes him gently. “I want _you_ here, one way or another. Just think about it, when you can. When you feel safe.”

“As safe as I’ll ever be, right now.”

“Maybe so. Look, there goes a satellite…” She points at the sky.

“Mm. Make a wish.” He frowns mildly, adding, “…maybe that’s stars…”

She chuckles quietly. “I’ll take my chances.” Leaning over she kisses his jaw.

He smiles and nuzzles her. “It’s just… a thing. You say to kids.” Obviously he knows a lot of things to say to kids. The story of the three goats is already being spread, she knows, between the women and from there throughout the Citadel. 

“Mmhm. You tell good stories, too.” She nips his lower lip gently, and sighs.

“You never heard that?” He nuzzles back, beginning to respond to the flirtatious attention.

“No. I heard you get a wish if you catch a leaf right out of a tree before it touches ground. And stories about hunters and wild animals…” She kisses him between speaking.

“…Oh. But you… had books?” His tone is careful, skirting around old memories. It’s ironic that he’s half feral now, but the glimpses she has of his past hint at growing up in one of the last pockets of comparative civilization. He reads easily and well, knows stories and words and the uses of items from the old world.

Her upbringing was in a wilder place. “Not really. We wrote… but most of our stories were aloud. Do you know any about the white dogai?”

Max shakes his head and looks curious.

“Uzu, the white dogai. In the stories they’re usually evil creatures, and ugly. They have ears so big they can use them as blankets, and one red eye, claws and fangs and their knees bend backwards. A lot of them are sorcerers.” She’s grinning, warming to the old memory of the tale.

Max considers this and ticks the descriptors off on his crooked fingers, then nods firmly. “Got it.”

“So, they’re very dangerous. But one day one of the dogai was born and she was all white. Even her eyes were so pale they were blind, and the other dogai thought she was too weak to survive. They left her in the desert.” She watches Max nod, attentive, but clearly this story is all new to him. “But a village girl found her there while she was hunting, and felt sorry for her. She knew her people would kill the dogai, so she hid her in a cave under the roots of a tree and visited her every day to feed and bathe her.”

Max’s eyebrows rise, but of course he shouldn’t be a stranger to kindness against all odds.

“The village girl’s name was Uzu, and she shared everything with the blind dogai, even her name, so they were both Uzu, and they loved one another like sisters.  
As the Dogai grew older, she came into her magic, and she helped the girl hunt and learn. But one day the girl went out to hunt alone and didn’t return home at night.”

“…She had family?” Max mumbles a query, as if wanting to clarify that she’d be missed.

“Yes. And they were worried but they were afraid to go out in the dark. But the dogai wasn’t afraid because she couldn’t see in the day any more than in the night. So she went looking for her.”

“Metaphorically.”

She rolls her eyes. “Searching, then. Do you want to hear the rest or not?”

Max just nods, smirking slightly.

“She had been bitten by a snake, and when the dogai found her, she was half dead of poison and exposure. But the dogai bound and treated the wound, and carried the girl home on her back.” She ignores his grimace of sympathy. “When the villagers saw them coming they thought the dogai had hurt the girl, and almost shot her. But the girl shouted out to stop them, and when they came closer she explained the whole story.”

“Lucky.” Max grunts, looking skeptical. It’s a fair assessment that outside of stories, angry mobs don’t listen so well.

Furiosa nods. “And then they all lived together, and hunted together, because the villagers trusted both Uzus.”

Both eyebrows rise and Max grunts again. “Don’t meet many villagers like that.”

“Don’t meet many villagers at all anymore.” She points out.

“…Oh. They’re out there.” His casual air makes her think of his cloth map, and wonder just how widely he’s traveled. More than anyone else in the Citadel, definitely.

“Well… that’s the story.” She closes her eyes peacefully.

“Mmn. ‘S a good story.”

“I’ll tell you another tomorrow. They’re all coming back to me, now. I thought I had forgotten.”

He nods. “Like the goat story.”

“Maybe it’s a good sign. Peace coming back at last, even if it’s only for a while.

“Only here. Don’t know if it can spread…”

Here. For us. It’s a start.” She stretches out beside him to sleep, unwilling to worry, just for tonight. After a moment she feels him lie down beside her, curling around her protectively. Drowsily she rolls over and caresses his face. “Sweet dreams, Fool.”

“Mmh. Hope so. You too. Um. But not the fool part.”

She laughs softly. “Furi?”

“Mnh. Furi’s Fool.” He buries his face against her neck, content to fall asleep tangled up together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story Max told is, you can probably guess, a creative and deliberate reinterpretation of 'the three billy goats gruff'. Growing up in a pocket of civilization it seems likely he'd know some conventional children's stories.  
> Furiosa's tale is based on Australian aboriginal mythology, and was inspired by/adapted from the book 'Fearless girls, wise women & Beloved sisters' by Kathleen Ragan.


	7. Max, Furiosa, & Puppies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just what the title says. Fluff of the wet-nosed kind, then sex... and a side of more serious conversation.

The next morning Furiosa goes down early to talk to a trade caravan, and the Dag enlists Max’s help sorting seeds. He is surprisingly patient at menial tasks, appreciating the distraction. Whenever Baby comes nearby to play, he murmurs “Boosh!” at her, resulting in giggles.  
The day is leisurely and pleasant in spite of the tasks, and later Toast and a War Boy show up with a machine to tinker with, although whether they truly need Max’s advice or are just trying to keep him occupied he’s not sure. As he’s started getting around some without the crutch, healed enough to begin showing signs of building restlessness, the women have been conspiring to find activities for him. Furiosa’s trade talks are long, and after a late lunch he’s left alone for an hour or so, a chance to breathe in the green scents and sit quiet without the chatter of other people. They like to keep him busy, but they’ve also learned when to give him space. He’s not as easily overwhelmed by people as he used to be, but he still needs time alone.  
When Furiosa comes up to see him at last, she calls out before she comes into view. “Max! Max, come see!”  
Hearing her call he pulls himself up to his feet in a hurry, and limps around the windmill he’s been resting at the base of, then stops and blinks while his brain works out the joyful note in her voice. Nothing is bad, it was not a cry of alarm.  
Her arms are full of something squirmy and she’s laughing, delighted. It has a tail… _two_ tails, and even with her prosthetic arm Furiosa has trouble holding on. As she gets closer he can hear whining and yipping.  
She drops into a crouch and untangles two puppies from the fabric bundle they’ve been in. They look like siblings, soft-faced yellow dogs with spots, just starting into the leggy stage of puppyhood.  
“…Dogs!” Max breathes, face lighting up like a child’s. He goes down on one knee stiffly.  
She laughs as they fall all over themselves running between her and him, licking whatever they can reach. “The traders said their mother’s a good sight hound for catching birds.”  
Max just nods, beaming. “Good dogs.” He seems to have been reduced to a very basic vocabulary, overwhelmed.  
She comes closer to kneel by him. “The one with the white foot is a girl. We can find another one somewhere and maybe see if they’ll breed.”  
He nods. “Need training, too.” Max rolls the nearest puppy over easily, and scratches its belly, going straight to the spots that set one leg thrashing in the air.  
Furiosa cracks up, watching this. “Are they _supposed_ to do that? I didn’t know…” It’s clear from the way he handles them that he does, after all.  
Max nods and glances up, mildly puzzled. “You never had dogs?”  
“I’ve never even seen one before today.” She shakes her head. “Not a real living one.”  
He blinks, and gives a rare and abrupt low chuckle. “I’ve had a couple.”  
“Good. You can train them.” She’s pleased. “I had no idea they were for you.”  
Max ducks his head sheepishly, then grins and gathers both puppies up in his arms, letting them lick his face. If they’re a ploy to keep him at the Citadel, they’re a good one.  
She sits back smugly. “They practically _gave_ me the male. Said they were afraid he’d get bought to be eaten, so they were glad I wanted to train them instead. Are you going to name them?”  
He shrugs, lifting his chin to get his face free for a reply. “Um. ‘M not good at that…”  
“Maybe Cheedo will, then. Is it true they can learn to help the blind?”  
Max nods, letting them down to tumble over each other again, but they’re already working out that he’s pack, game to be played on top of.  
“A lot of people in the camps below are too broken to work. With a little help…” She pets one of the puppies. “Men without legs can herd goats, maybe. Blind men could get around...”   
Thoughtful, Max sobers. “…Gonna need more dogs.”  
“There will be other caravans. Let’s call the female ‘Hope’.”  
“…And?” He points to the boy, expectant.  
The dog whimpers, then gives a long rumbling bark.  
Furiosa snickers. “Howls?”  
Max nods, satisfied, then admits sheepishly, “My last dog was named Dog.”  
“You named your dog ‘Dog’?” Her expression was both exasperated and fond, and she leaned in to hug him. “Well, Dag named her kid ‘Baby’…”  
“Might pick a new name herself, when she’s older.” Max shrugs. He was alone on the road, the last time he had a dog, so there was no point naming it for anyone else. “…And look what you named me.”  
“You like it.” She smiles and ruffles his hair. “And you earned it.”  
“By trying to fight you? Losing battle…” He smirks, then rocks back with a breathless grunt as one of the puppies leaps against his chest. They’re excited the humans are cuddling and want to join in.  
“Exactly.” Snuggling up against him, she pets the puppies obligingly, following Max’s wordless directions on where they like to be scratched best. “How do I pet you to get your leg to do that?” She teases.  
His eyebrows rise. “…Have to experiment?”  
She gives him a sultry look, feeling playful, but that’s all the further it gets before the other women start showing up to coo over the puppies. Max quietly instructs them all in what the puppies like, and how to discourage a few bad habits. Of course he also lies on the ground with them and lets them climb all over him and lick him. Max is very much a dog person, and the comparison between him and them is hard not to make when they’re all rolling on the ground together.   
A schedule for dog care is arranged, and then Cheedo brings up the goats to introduce the animals to each other. They’re roughly the same size, for now, and each seem to think the others are simply funny-looking versions of their own species. Between head-butting baby goats and squirming puppies and excited people, they make a noisy but happy gathering.   
By evening, Max and Furiosa are left alone again with the new furry charges. Both the play and the commotion of people has exhausted Max, and he flops down beside her with a puff of dust, flat out on his back. The puppies quickly settle half on top of him in a similar attitude of not-getting-up-again-anytime-soon.  
“…hey!” She presses close, nudging one of the puppies aside to get up against him.  
Max grins at her, and pushes himself up on his elbows to kiss her. “Thanks.”  
Her expression softens. “Mm. For getting you puppies?”  
He nods, looking tired and very content about it.  
“I didn’t know they were for you, but they clearly are.” She kisses his throat. “Not sure I want to share you, though.”  
He looks at the puppies, then back up at her with soulful, sad eyes. “…Just for tonight?”  
The puppies, perhaps responding to his tone of voice, lift brown eyes to look up at them both, too.  
She relents with a huff. “…Sure. But we’re not having sex with them watching, ever.”  
Max shakes his head in easy agreement. “Need a puppysitter.”  
She rests her head on his chest, settling in. “I’m sure we’ll have volunteers.”  
His arm goes around her, and he nuzzles her hair. “Dogs…” He murmurs happily.  
She thinks he’s being cute, but says nothing, content to lie against him.   
Over the next few days, she lets him handle most of the dog care and training, but the women and a couple of trusted young War Boys come to learn from him how to handle them, too. Max says it’s good for them to get used to lots of different people, which she finds an interesting comment from a man who still struggles with that himself. He teaches with gesture and whistles more than words, and throws himself into their training with a focus that seems to erase any restlessness for the open road, at least for now. His only other distraction is helping Capable finish up a new knee brace for him. The scar tissue from the burns have rendered his old one a poor fit, and it’s had to be made from scratch.   
The girls worry, she knows, that once he’s walking steady on both feet he’ll be going again. For once she is not so sure he will. Furiosa picks a moment when he’s at work with the dogs to bring another gift of two neat braided collars with a medallion on each. The tags are leaf-shaped and have the dog’s names on them, and underneath that the initials M.F.P.  
Along with the collars and tags, she has his badge. It’s not perfect, but the letters have been re-engraved and made clear again, and the edges have been smoothed out.   
When he sees it, Max has to sit down quickly, eyes looking almost watery and face blank as if the air’s been knocked out of him.  
She moves closer to stroke his hair, not sure whether to apologize or not. “Is it close enough?”  
“Better.” His voice cracks and he swallows, leaning into the touch. “…Are they police dogs, now?”  
“Yes. I think they are. They’ll help all of us.”  
He nods and turns his head to bury his face against her for a moment, until he’s got a hold of himself.  
She murmurs a couple endearments, leaning down to nuzzle him. “Love you.”  
“Love _you_.” He nods and wraps both arms around her abruptly. Giving a little gasp of surprise, she hugs him back. Howls whimpers and squirms against their legs, jealous of the attention. Max holds on for a long moment, ignoring the dog, before his grip loosens and he leans back to smile up at her.  
Her expression is warm and tender, and she kisses his cheek.   
After a moment he offers her the badge back, then pulls at his jacket a little, holding it so she can pin it to the outside. He’s had it hidden away for too long.  
Sensing this is important, she straightens a little and accepts the badge back. She mouths the word ‘Mine’, smiles, and pins it carefully for him.   
He looks pleased, buffing it with his sleeve even though it’s been shined up already. The puppies squirm through getting theirs put on, enough to evoke a low chuckle from Max. The War Boys that have been learning to help train them just may end up wanting badges, too, and when Dag and Baby come by a short while later she declares the initials are for ‘Max and Furiosa’s Puppies’. She may come up with something new for the initials every week, but Max just hums softly and looks pleased, even proud.

* * *

That night after dinner, Furiosa finds Max waiting for her peacefully alone, having found someone else to take the puppies for the night.  
She’s taken to wearing a simple flowing gown to sleep in, patched together from fabric scraps. It can get cool on top of the butte, although Max is usually a good furnace to sleep beside. She’s mildly surprised to find him without the dogs, though. “Hello…”  
“Mm.” He hums a greeting, smiles, and holds out an inviting arm for her to sit beside him. They’re used to settling in beside each other by now, like parts machined to fit up against each other.  
She toes off her shoes and drops, settling in close. “Hmmm. Do you have plans?”  
“…Only if you want to?” He rumbles uncertainly.  
She cups his face in her hands. “Very much. Touch me.”  
Granted permission, he pulls her a little closer and nuzzles her neck, his free hand rising to stroke her thigh through the nightgown.  
Her head tilts back a little “When you do this… it feels like you’re loving me with your hands… I never thought of it like that before.”  
“I love you with everything.” He murmurs against her neck.  
She gives a little sound between a sigh and a groan. “I want that. I want you to love me with everything.”  
“Mmmm…” This time the rumble against her neck is just because he knows she likes the vibrations. He mouths her skin there, and hums low again.  
She holds him close, caressing his hair and arching helpfully, gradually sinking down onto her back, and he goes down with her, kissing and licking. Without letting up on the attentions, he gets one arm free briefly, and then the other, to shuck off his jacket. Sliding her hand up under the shirt, she helps him get that off too and runs her fingers over bare skin. Already she’s breathing hard, and whispers his name.  
The burns on his chest and shoulder have healed to a pale tracery of lines, the same kind of branching scar most of the cultists bore, but it doesn’t pain him now. Without theirs for comparison, lying together in a bower surrounded by green, it reminds her of the veins of a leaf. Taking the time to heal has finally filled in the hollow spaces between his ribs, and he’s scarred but healthy, under her touch.   
One of his own hands moves to work her loose gown upwards. Things are easier at his end, with less clothing to get off her. She has plenty of her own scars, her body lean and muscular under them, and she traces his with her fingertips. They’re a match, battered by the world, but too strong to be beaten into the ground. That they’ve both held onto the ability to be gentle with each other is a wonder, and she cranes her neck to lick and kiss him, wanting to give him what he’s given her. He is always, both in his touch and his asking permission, gentle with her.  
Max shivers and moans softly, stilling a little to let her work. He’s careful, since their first time, using his hands and his mouth often and making sure he never finishes inside her. It’s a precaution, for him, but she sometimes uses her mouth too but only while on top and never kneeling. She prefers to be on top in general, although she’s lost any fear with him, and he seems equally content to be on the bottom. Max never pushes, and even when he takes the initiative it’s always with the air of being willing to stop in a heartbeat if she asks. Now he’s quick to collapse to lie gently beside her, nuzzling her neck again but unsure who’s leading.  
She mouths and kisses him all over as they undress, content beside him, but once they’re both nude she lays back again, and tugs his shoulder gently. “Please. It’s all right.”  
“Mmmnh? What?” Sometimes it’s hard to tell if he’s confused by her directions, or just flat out hasn’t heard her properly because his hearing is bad. He tries to follow the tug at his shoulder though, rising on one elbow.  
“I want you to drive tonight.” She smirks up at him, nails sliding up his back. It’s clearly a metaphor, but maybe the way she wraps a leg around his waist will help to clarify.  
He groans and grunts, then rises to settle between her legs, careful of his knee and watching her close as he braces himself with hands on either side of her.  
She relaxes under him, eyes drifting closed with pleasure. Crooking one leg, she rubs her thigh against his hip.  
Relaxed is good, but he’s always careful, even when it’s hard to be. The way she has her legs hooked around him makes him breathe faster and shiver, but he rubs lightly against her at first, gasping at brushes of contact.  
She moans and arches a little, then presses soft kisses against his face. “Just want to feel you all around me,” She murmurs, “Inside and out.”  
He nuzzles her, settling on his elbows, but he’s careful sliding in, licking and nibbling at her neck throughout.  
Regular contact has made this easier for her, and she doesn’t tense this time. She _does_ give a low keening sound of pleasure, though, rolling her head to the side to let him give her neck more attention.  
Max knows her sounds well enough by now to tell good from bad, so he sucks at and kisses her neck and jaw, and settles to rock their hips together.  
“Please… please…” She murmurs, distracted with the sensations. “More, Max. It feels good.”  
He groans against her, chest a vibrating sound chamber over hers, but he needs little encouragement. Already he’s twitching and starting to thrust against her, hips moving on instinct. ‘Good’ is such a small word for how it feels.  
Her reactions are slightly different, more passive, but completely trusting. She arches up to meet him, legs trembling.  
Her trust is, to him, as great or more of a gift than anything else she gives him. It takes him a minute to settle into a rhythm, breath coming faster, and he slides in and out of deeper contact slick and warm and just a little shaky. Whenever he can spare the air he kisses her face and neck, moaning softly.  
She gasps his name amidst pleas and commands, ‘Don’t stop’, ‘right there’ and ‘Love me, like that’. It’s not until she’s very close that she moans “I love you”, shivering right on the edge.  
Max might approach climax faster except that this is _work_ , and he always tries to focus on making it good for her. It’s the ‘I love you’ that makes him give a strangled little moan, and then he’s trying to pull out, away, as careful as always to practice the only form of birth control he can provide, but it’s harder than ever when he’s right on the edge himself.  
“Please…!” She arches, clearly not wanting him to move away. Her thighs squeeze a little, making it harder, but she doesn’t try to hold him deliberately.   
He whimpers, once, then gasps and pushes deeper reflexively. There’s no stopping the climax, and he sucks in air in a gasp and holds it as the rush of extra heat bursts inside of her.  
She cries out loudly, clutching at him as she too, climaxes, and then she **does** hold on, instinctively wanting to keep him there and hang onto the moment. When they both start to come down, she’s got tear tracks on her face.  
Max gasps against her, collapsing slowly as if all his strength has drained away. He’s very warm, trembling still with little aftershocks and occasional whimper. He’s also _heavy_.  
He’s not too heavy for her, though she’s surprised he’s gone boneless in her arms. She buries her face against him, letting the tears come quietly. After a long moment she says, “I needed that. Thank you.”  
The noise he makes in response sounds like an attempt at words, but all that comes out is a groan. After a minute he summons up the energy for a long slow kiss, though, which is a kind of answer.  
She kisses back lazily, tender, and murmurs against his lips, “All around me…”  
“…Risky…” He grunts out, hoarse, but he’s still awash in the fading ripples of orgasm and there’s no trace of panic in his tone. He’s been _so_ careful, sometimes so careful it leaves him aching. Slowly, gingerly, he rolls off her onto his side with another quiet groan.  
She lets him go, but then turns, scrubs tears off her face with the one arm, then nestles against him. “There are herbs. But they’re in short supply. I’d rather leave them for Toast and Cheedo. Take my chances.”  
“But you don’t… want…?” This time the look he gives her is wary and questioning, but not panicked.  
“I… I’m afraid to want too much. I still don’t know…” She shakes her head. It was over a decade ago she was a bride, and there could have been any number of reasons it didn’t take. In retrospect, she’s immensely grateful. Now, though…  
“I know I wouldn’t want anyone’s _but_ yours,” She says quietly. That’s a decision she came to a while back. “But I don’t want to frighten you away. I’d rather have you and no baby, if I can’t have both.”  
His eyes widen and his mouth works briefly, soundlessly, the urge to protest a reflex. He wouldn’t abandon her as it is, and to abandon her _and_ their child would be more shameful still, but then he knows himself and knows how his ghosts can rise up and send him running. It hasn’t happened in a while now, but he still doesn’t trust himself. He closes his mouth again, looking guilty and sorrowful.  
She strokes his face, slightly apologetic. In her mind, it’s not worth arguing over. Even if they made a conscious effort to conceive, nothing might come of it, and with the traumas in his past being what they are—she knows--she can’t help but think it might be a little cruel to make him face the possibility of a child. Of course, the same could be said of her. “Don’t do that. I don’t want you to be unhappy.”  
“I want-“ He pauses, because it’s a surprise to realize that he really _does_ want to be a father again. Max gives a shuddering sigh and puts his face against her neck. “I can’t be trusted with what I want.”  
“I trust you.”  
“…Even with that?” He makes himself lift his head again to meet her eyes.  
“With a child? I’ve seen you with Baby. But you wouldn’t be alone.”  
“Furi…” He strokes her face, struggling a little, “’M not sure I’m strong enough…” His ghosts are quieter than they used to be, his mind more reliable than it was, but he’s still afraid it won’t last.  
She closes her eyes and curls up against him, veiling whatever she may be feeling. “Just hold me, then. We’ll think about it another day.”  
“Don’t want… to put anything on you.” He sighs and wraps both arms around her. Max is a hair shorter, but when she curls up he’s got broad enough shoulders and long enough arms to cradle and envelop her, protective. Possibly he’s stronger than he’s willing to give himself credit for. “It… was nice. To not be so careful.”  
She nods against him, body relaxed, face impassive. “What do you mean… put anything on me?”  
“It doesn’t… look _easy_. Especially the last part.” He falls silent, thoughtful, carefully exploring a memory. He waited at a distance up a long white hall. There were **doctors**. It seems so surreal, that image of a world where there were doctors and police and hospitals, that he sometimes thinks he just imagined it.  
She blinks, looking up at him in mild confusion. “Last… part… of birth?” Surprised out of the shaky emotional state, she gives a small smile. “Not much worth doing is _easy_ , Max.”  
The motion of her head makes his gaze refocus, although she may get a glimpse of the faraway look. He’s still remembering, and he says slowly, “Your feet swell. Back hurts…” Dag and Capable both have not shared those kinds of details around him, but there’s a teasing edge just creeping into his voice. “You get cravings for pickles and ice cream.”  
Never in her life has Furiosa had ice cream. Pickles, maybe. Her smile starts to grow a little. “I am Furiosa of the Vuvalini of Many _Mothers_. I helped deliver infants before I lost this arm and after. I can handle swollen ankles.”  
Max can’t quite remember what ice cream **is** , and any memory of it can’t coexist in the world she’s reminding him of now. He reaches out to stroke her head, the soft fuzz of hair against his palm. “Maybe we… can be a little less careful…”  
Her eyes mist over, even as she breaks into a wholehearted grin. “I’d like that.”  
He smiles back, not a grin but a slightly weary triumph, even though he’s not clear on what he should feel that way for. There’s a nuzzle and a kiss, and he puts their foreheads together gently.  
She leans into it with a little hitch of breath that might be a sob, or just a deep sigh. “Mm. I like not being careful for its own sake, too. Feels good.”  
He starts to give an emphatic nod before remembering how close their faces are, and almost conks her one the nose.  
Furiosa huffs at the near miss, then laughs and rolls over to put herself on top of him. “Maybe a second round is in order.”  
His eyebrows go up, and then he glances down, but her being on top of him is making recovery faster. “Mmmh…”  
In no hurry, she begins by kissing all over his face lazily, then licking and nibbling his ear, making him squirm, but his hands rise to stroke her sides and cup her breasts.  
Suddenly playful, she nips and tickles him, moving down his throat and body slowly, as if determined to cover every inch of him. Gasping, he twitches and arches a little, surprised by the attention. This is more than he was expecting, but very far from unwelcome. It’s no more than he gives her every time they make love, though, and more foreplay gives him more time to recover. When she reaches the branching lightning scar, she traces it with her tongue softly, nuzzling into his shoulder as if to comfort him against pain long since faded.  
“Mmmmn…” Max takes the opportunity to nuzzle her hair, humming against her. Apart from the scars, the only lasting damage seems to be that his hearing’s a little worse, but that’s hardly needed for what they’re doing now.  
“Stubborn, beautiful, generous Fool.” She sighs and licks a nipple, good hand sliding down his abdomen. “What would I do without you?” Her voice is quiet, but she’s learned to pitch it just loud enough.  
Max considers for a moment, and murmurs slowly, “Not as much fun, by hand…” It only takes one and he’s not sure how women go about that exactly, but he thinks that they probably _do_.  
Sputtering, she laughs against his sternum, and bites a pectoral, playful. “You wouldn’t have believed the rumors the War Boys used to bat around about what I do with my metal hand.”  
The bite elicits a groan. “Know you too well to believe rumours.”  
“I’m right-handed, anyway.” She purrs, around his midsection now, and to illustrate her point she curls her fingers around him and palms his erection gently.  
The groan vibrates through him, and his hips buck, once. “’S a good… hand…” He’s gone hoarse.  
She strokes slowly, moving down to straddle his knees. “Not too sensitive?”   
He gives a grunt and a wince when she jostles his knee, because _that’s_ sensitive, but a moment later his hips are twitching again.  
She pats his hip in apology, careful not to rest weight or pin that leg, but she’s building toward nuzzling and mouthing around his groin, so hopefully it will be worth it. Her tongue slides from shaft to head, more to prepare him than to take him all the way.  
Another groan, and this one is nothing but pleasure, and after he managed to lift his head briefly to smile down at her. “Furi…”  
Teasing the sensitive spot just below the head, she looks up to meet his eyes, smiles back, and mouths him softly. The first time she tried this for him there was a mild sense of obligation, after all he did for her with his own tongue. Now, she can’t say it’s her favorite thing in bed, but his reactions are so sweet. As foreplay, it will do nicely.  
The last thing he would want is for her to feel obligated, but he gives and receives without ever asking, and what she’s doing now is very well received. His head drops back again with a moan, and his hips tremble under her.  
She chuckles softly, loving the response, and continues her attentions, licking and kneading with her hand. When she murmurs his name again, it’s with her lips touching his skin.   
He gives another moan, then whimpers, “Again?”  
“Again?” She grins a little. “This? Max. My Fool… does that feel good?” Lips and soundwaves both tingle against him.   
Max squirms and moans louder, gasping. His hands clutch at the blankets, twisting them up in knots.  
“Easy…” She croons gently. “Not yet. Not yet. I want you in me again…” She licks a couple more times, shivering, and murmurs, “Love you,” Against him.  
He pants and tries to nudge her with his good knee, afraid he’ll climax before she wants him to. “Llll…”  
Drawing back at the nudge, she smirks down at him and pets his side, giving him a moment without direct stimulation. “Yeah?” This is fun, actually, but she’s ready now, too.  
Max takes a moment to catch his breath and tries speaking again. “Love you… c’mere?” He tucks his chin to give her a hopeful look.  
Obligingly, she moves up his body, leaning over to kiss his sternum.   
His hands are shaky, as he helps guide her over him, but he gives her a blissful smile.  
“Happy?” She asks softly, then gasps and moans as she guides him into her. “Ohh… perfect…”  
The beginning of a nod is interrupted by the same sensations, and his eyes drift closed as his hips twitch under her.  
“Max…” She murmurs, apropos of nothing more than contentment. Breathing deep and heavy, she rocks her hips.  
“Yours!” He gasps out, trying to work up a rhythm again.  
She shivers and leans low over him, the angle pushing him even deeper. “A-ah… yes. Mine.”  
Max moans and clutches at her hips, his own rocking thrusts gaining strength and speed.  
She strokes his face shakily, eyes half-open and watching his expression. “…Close… love you…”  
He nods, eyes barely open, eyebrows lifted in an expression of happy surprise. “ _Need_ you…”  
Furiosa groans, pressing a few frantic kisses under his chin, and then the rhythm of their bodies joining hits a peak, and she gasps, struggling to keep her eyes open and fixed on his face as she climaxes.  
Max has less presence of mind, lost in the sensations with an expression between pain and blissful pleasure. His hips rise off the bed as he strains, getting out only a strangled whimper.  
She half-pants, half-whimpers with him, but falls to murmuring endearments as soon as her breath starts to come back, slumping forward to press her cheek to his.  
He makes a slow collapse, hips and expression both relaxing gradually, and he stirs and starts trying to kiss her before he’s caught his breath.  
She kisses back gently, murmuring his name against his lips. “Wonderful.”  
“You are.” He nods, panting still.  
“Mm… You make me feel warm.” She sighs and nuzzles against him,  
He _is_ very warm, a human furnace, especially right now. “You… make me feel like Max.” His face nestles against her neck.  
“…That means something out here, doesn’t it. To feel… _yourself_.”  
Max nods, beginning to recover. “Lost myself. For a long time.”  
“I want to hold onto you forever.” She smiles against him. “I’m better with you.”  
He looks a little skeptical. “You’re perfect.”  
She laughs, then looks at his face and realizes he’s not quite joking. “Oh, Max, you _are_ a Fool.”  
Completely serious, he frowns mildly. “Perfect when I met you, already.”  
“When I tried to shoot you in the face?” She kisses his cheek. “This is a cruel world, and I’ve been cruel to survive it. But you make me feel safe enough to be kind.”  
“Strong enough to survive. Soft enough to give me trust while I aimed a gun at you.” He meets her eyes steadily.  
She blinks at him slowly, surprised but unable to deny his analysis. Gradually she sinks back down and buries her face against his chest, touched beyond words. “Oh.”  
“You trusted me first.” He adds, and strokes her head gently.  
“You wanted freedom. So did we.” She nuzzles against him lightly. “…thank you.”  
He grunts softly, and strokes her back. “…Guess it was a rough start.”  
“Trying to beat each other to death is just how you say hello on the road.” She smirks, wriggles a little to settle beside him with a moan, and closes her eyes again. “I didn’t know, though. That you thought that about me.”  
Max gives a little groan as they shift around, but nods, getting an arm around behind her shoulders.  
“You make me want to _be_ that good.” She sighs happily.  
“As… good as you already are?” He looks bewildered.  
“As strong as you see me.” She kisses his cheek.  
Max just nods again peacefully, and squeezes her. “Hope ‘m good enough, is all.”  
“You give to me over and over… I couldn’t ask for better.”  
He ducks his head a little to meet her eyes with his. “Where would I be without you?” It’s **not** rhetorical.  
“Somewhere out on the Fury Road, I guess.” She strokes his hair.  
“…Wherever ghosts lead.” He nods and rests his head against her again.  
She gives him a moment’s pause, turning the thought of ghosts and loss over in her mind. “When I was first taken, and my mother and Katy were killed, I used to talk to them. For years after, when I was alone.”  
Max goes very still against her, tensing slightly. “D’you… still see them?”   
“…No. Not since I was made a bride and shut in the Vault.”  
“’M sorry. ‘S company.” Talking about this is unfamiliar ground, but he never knew anyone else sees them, too.  
“It’s all right. I don’t know whether they left or whether I only made them up so I didn’t have to let them go.” She laces her fingers through his. “Maybe it doesn’t matter.”  
“…The old woman…” He starts slow and pauses, and decides against telling Furiosa about the cackles and ribbing after the first time they made love. “…got mad I lost the bike…”  
“Mm. Which old woman? One of the Many Mothers?” She knows he’s seen Angharad.  
He nods slowly, then lifts his free hand in a familiar gesture. “Kaboom.”  
She blinks, then smiles, half wistful, half amused. “The Seed Keeper? Judith. We could all do worse than having her haunt us, I think.”  
Max shrugs and nods. “She’s… easier. Than the rest.”  
“Good.” She squeezes him gently. “She knows you’re mine.”  
“Yes.” Max swallows and buries his face against her, gently, but when his voice comes again it’s almost inaudible. “So does Jessie. Likes you.”  
She can guess, but Furiosa asks slowly, “…do you want to talk about Jessie?” She shifts her grip so she’s cradling him close.  
He shakes his head a little against her, curling closer. “Belongs… not here. To when it was different. I was different.”  
She’s not quite sure what he means, but decides not to push. They have years ahead. “You’re welcome here, Max. So is anyone you carry with you. It doesn’t matter whether they’re ghosts or hallucinations, to me. As long as they’re yours, they’re welcome.”  
He squeezes a little, takes a steadying breath, and kisses her.  
She kisses back, but when she settles again she strokes his shoulder and hums quietly, trying to soothe him. Already he’s settling, tired out physically and emotionally. Furiosa stays awake until he’s out, holding him close.


	8. Worth the fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A baby is born, and Max and Furiosa roll around in the sand. Not like that.

The next several weeks are a pleasant blur of working with dogs and plants, cuddling and lovemaking. The puppies are eager and learn quickly, and before long Max is taking them on short hunting jaunts in the desert, sometimes with Furiosa or sometimes with a War Boy or Toast and Cheedo. There’s a trace of his feral habits still, as Max is content to share lizards and other small game with the dogs, raw. Sometimes he’s more a pack leader than a man in command of animals, but Hope and Howls are very obedient to him either way.   
He’s returning with a good catch, the dogs running circles around himself and Toast, just after Capable goes into labor.  
The Vuvalini are absent, in the room with Capable, and Max and Toast are just in time to catch Furiosa rushing with a kettle and herbs, dressed only in a ragged dark shift instead of her usual attire. She pauses, eyes lit up between anxiety and excitement. “Her water broke. It could be any time, or not for hours.”  
“…Nghn?” Max comes up short, bewildered. Howls all but crashes into his legs.  
Toast is quicker on the uptake. “But… she’s okay, right?”  
“So far so good. The Dag is burning flowers for her.”  
“…Where’s Baby?” Max is looking tense already. He missed the Dag’s delivery, and he’s not sorry for it.  
“Cheedo has her, and Tracker is with them since she won’t have him in the room.” Capable is very fond of her War Boy and the father of her impending infant, but seems determined the birthing is women’s work.  
He nods, hands clenching at the air. Hope and Howls sit at his feet uncertainly, and Hope whines. They can tell he’s anxious.  
“Oh, Max, It’ll be fine. Take the dogs up and try to keep the others distracted.”  
He nods, fidgets, then steps in to touch foreheads briefly.  
She leans into it, solid and reassuring, then draws back and nods at Toast. “Wash up if you’re coming in.”  
Toast nods firmly, and gives Max a friendly pat on the arm in passing.   
He smiles weakly at both women, turning his feet around and leaving numbly.  
It may be disconcerting to be banished to the cliffs, but it’s probably for the best since no sounds carry up there. After a couple hours the Dag comes up to retrieve and feed Baby. “It’s going to be all right,” She tells them. “Furiosa does know what she’s doing, and so do the other Vuvalini.”  
Max has been helping to keep the toddler entertained, but he’s a little twitchy and not all there, so Cheedo and Tracker have been keeping a close watch. The dogs are restless, taking their cues from Max. “It’s not out yet?” He sits beside Dag with a distressed-puppy expression.  
She blinks at him. “Oh! It can take _days_. But I don’t think it will, for her.”  
Max stares at the Dag, eyes widening. “…Did…??!” He nods helplessly at Baby.  
“No, but I saw a dawn and a dusk before she popped out. Hurt a lot. Oh, but it’s worth it, don’t look so tragic.”  
“…Don’t _remember_ it taking that long…” He mutters and sighs, calming just a little.  
She opens her mouth, then closes it again and just pats his knee. “You’ll see. It’ll be an ugly little red wrinkled thing, and she’ll think it’s wonderful, and after a couple days it’ll be lovely.”  
Max nods, and gazes distantly at Baby like it’s not really her he’s seeing. “They all are…” His voice, too, seems to come from a long ways off.  
“I… don’t think I want one.” Cheedo says timidly. “I mean, they _are_ sweet, but…”  
Dag cradles Baby, but smiles. “You don’t have to. You’re perfect either way. “ She smiles, and leans over to give Cheedo a reassuring one-armed hug.  
“I’ll always babysit though.” Cheedo grins. Sometimes it’s hard to tell what’s between her and the Dag, but they’re always close and never shy of touching. Possibly Cheedo is Baby’s second mother whether she wants to be or not.  
Max nods, gaze refocusing slightly, and he gives a wistful little smile. “Don’t have to want one…”  
Tracker doesn’t talk much, but he’s listening, and speaks to Max. “Do _you_? Want one?”  
His quiet nature is probably part of why Max gets along with the War Boy all right, although he was leery at first. Now he looks awkward, torn, ducking his head a little. Max looks at Baby and then looks away. “…You’ll be scared. When you hold it. Think of everything that could go wrong…” As pep talks for impending fatherhood go, it’s not reassuring.  
“Yeah, I guess. I won’t be scared when she’s got it, though.” He smiles a little. Tracker is placid and steady and not much like Nux in a variety of ways, which Capable has shyly admitted is fine because she loves him for who he is himself. He doesn’t look rattled by Max’s warning, nor his lack of an answer to the original question.  
“It… it’s worth it. Being scared. Even if…” Max trails off, then staggers to his feet abruptly. The dogs at his feet leap up ready to follow, but bewildered.  
“Max?” Cheedo looks worried.  
“Max!” Baby echoes his name, waving her hands.  
Slowly, careful of his knee, Max sits back down and repeats quietly, “It’s worth it.”  
The Dag watches a moment, then says, “I think it’s my turn to tell a story this time. What do you think, Baby?”  
“Max!” She squeaks, and flails.  
Hope whimpers, confused. Max drops a hand down to scratch the dog behind the ears, staring vacantly, then offers out an arm to the toddler.  
Dag hands her over, then launches into a meandering story about dogs and goats and biting flowers. It’s not as pointed as Max’s tale, but it makes the toddler giggle.  
With Baby on his lap, Max slowly settles, although the distant look takes a while to fade from his eyes. He bounces the child on his good knee and holds her hands, and eventually he smiles just a little at the story.  
It’s winding down by the time Furiosa emerges, tired but triumphant. “Tracker, go see your son.”  
The War Boy’s eyes go wide, and he scrambles to his feet with an uncharacteristic yelp of excitement, pauses, and asks, “…Healthy?”  
“Great lungs. Go.”  
Max, too, looks up in concern, but when he sees the look of triumph on Furiosa’s face he hugs Baby impulsively. She squeals with delight and rubs her hands over his stubble of a beard.  
Furiosa grins and pats Tracker’s shoulder in passing, then sits heavily beside Max. “Capable needs rest. The rest of us can visit tomorrow.”  
“You’ve got a cousin.” He bounces Baby on his knee again, sagging a little in relief.  
“…ohh. Does that mean we’re aunts?” The Dag is delighted.  
“They were already.” Max jerks his head at Cheedo and Furiosa, then grimaces as Baby tugs at the hair on his chin. It must be time to shave again if it’s long enough for her to get a grip on it.  
“Hey, that’s my Fool you’re mauling.” Furiosa tickles Baby.  
He smirks a little. “Only Furi gets to maul me.”  
“I can’t decide if you two are sweet or horrible.” Dag says with a smile. “Give me my daughter; it’s her bedtime.”  
“We’re horrible.” Furiosa clarifies for her cheerfully.  
Max nods pleasantly in agreement, and mimes nibbling Baby’s hands before he gives her back.   
“ **You** are. I think Max is secretly a puppy.” Cheedo grins.  
“A **_horrible_** puppy.” Furiosa slings her arm around Max.  
He beams and turns his head, and gives a long lick across her cheek and ear.  
She yelps and shoves him in protest, laughing as this inspires Howls to bound over to investigate.   
Unbalanced, he tumbles off the bench, but Max lets out a rare chortle of laughter, and allows the puppies to clamber all over and lick him. Wrestling around with the dogs on the ground does nothing to discourage the image of him as one of them.  
“You did ask for that.” The Dag laughs at them, then nods goodnight and heads indoors with Baby on her hip, and Cheedo’s hand in hers.   
Max and Furiosa are left in a pile of sleepy dogs, and Max settles with his shoulders between her feet. “Was worried.” He finds it easier to say now that Capable and her newborn infant are both safe and well.  
“She’s young and strong. I’ve seen harder births.” Nudging him over, Furiosa slides down and stretches lazily on the ground against him.  
Max grimaces. “Don’t like to think of that.”  
“Are you going to fret if we manage to get a daddy for Hope to have puppies with, too?” She teases gently.  
For a moment he considers this, then shrugs. “Yes. Probably.” At least he’s honest.  
“You confuse me sometimes, Max.” She murmurs. “You’re sweet when I’m not expecting it. But then, I’ve seen you fight.”  
“Mmngh. Losing my edge.” He frowns mildly and lifts his scarred and crooked-fingered left hand, pushing up his sleeve to eye the lightning scar on his arm. It’s healed well and he’s physically recovered, but he’s continued to linger past healing. Training the dogs, helping in the gardens and garages, and eating well every day makes him feel strangely settled and he’s not sure what to think of that.  
“Spar with some War Boys? They like you.” The two who help with the dogs are in awe of the Furiosa’s Wasteland man. To them he’s enigmatic, fascinating.  
“…If I forget… ‘m not their Blood Bag…” He may be afraid he’s going soft, but he could still hurt them if he goes into flashbacks.  
She pulls him close. “I’d offer, but I’m not sure that’s any better.”  
“Might be. I trust you. But you’re rough.”  
Furiosa pulls back a little and looks at him to see if he’s teasing, then smirks at his sober expression. “Had to be.”  
Max nods, serious and thoughtful. “Go easy on me at first?”  
“If you insist.” She bumps foreheads gently and smiles. “But tomorrow.”  
Max hums softly and pulls her closer in a hug. “Tomorrow.”

* * *

The next day they do rise and find a quiet space to spar, starting out gentle and cautious, unwilling to hurt each other. It’s hard to tell if Max is taking it seriously, but he grapples and fumbles, and then has to send the dogs away with a War Boy after their first attempt because they want to play, too.  
His knee is a little more of a weak point than it was, and he seems slow, uncertain. He feels _heavier_ , too, as she notices when he tries to pin her. In his long recovery, with the benefit of regular meals, he’s put on weight. Furiosa settles into it with a more businesslike air, pulling her blows, but quick to point out where his weaknesses show and demonstrate the need for him to develop a better stance. They end up on the ground a few times, and she’s somewhat easier to pin without her prosthetic on—but not much. “Oof… you’re stronger. If I headbutted you now, I’d smash your nose though.” She tilts her head up to demonstrate, bonking his face lightly.  
“You’d have to look at it.” He smirks. “You’re squirmy.” Shifting over her, he adjusts his grip on her arm. Solid and favoring his left knee, his weight presses down on her back and makes it a little hard to breathe, but he also seems oblivious to how vulnerable his position makes him to being unbalanced.  
“If this were a real fight I’d do it, then knee you in the crotch.” She huffs. Her shortened arm is harder to grip than the whole one, tapering off smoothly, but for the moment she lets him keep the hold. “Fighting fair is harder.” Furiosa smirks into the sand.  
“Didn’t try that, the first time…” He muses thoughtfully, then lets her up with a grunt. “I fight better when I’m not thinking.”  
She rises smoothly. “Maybe you should work on that; the thinking.” She lunges, feints, and sweeps both his legs out from under him.  
Max goes down hard with a ‘whoof’ of air knocked out of him, but if she was going for triggering his instincts it works, as he lashes out at her shins hard with both feet.  
Prepared for retaliation, Furiosa manages to dodge, but her chance to pin him is hampered by the kick. Already he’s rolling and scrambling out of the way before she gets close, moving much faster now. By the time he staggers up on one knee he’s breathing a little harder, and pauses, blinking. Then he grins. “Again?”  
“Knock you down again?” She pauses, amused by the reaction.  
Max shrugs. “Or something. Don’t give me time to think.”  
She laughs, but she’s willing to oblige. She gestures him up, but once he’s on his feet she moves in again, fast. This time she tries to hook his knee and get him down on his front. He spins and grapples at her in sudden desperation, going down on one knee, clumsy but determined. They end up falling together, again, and she scrambles to get him in a headlock.   
Twisting and rolling, he punches her in the armpit and tries to get _her_ in a headlock instead. By unfortunate coincidence, he’s hit the side where her lung collapsed before. It’s long healed, and as injuries go it’s nothing, but she flinches and wheezes instinctively and her grip on him slips. It’s the slim opening he apparently needs to capture her, but she’s not quite immobilized, and jabs back hard with her left elbow.  
At her back Max gives a breathy grunt, and wheezes a little, trying to sit on her again out of mild desperation. She elbows him again in the same spot, with impressive accuracy, and it _hurts_. He’s got a good grip and the benefit of greater bulk and weight though, and she feels herself gradually pushed flat. Then Max echoes her wheeze, and rolls off her.  
Furiosa coughs and rolls away on her side, tugging her collar up to wipe dust off her face. “You okay?”  
Panting, he grunts and rubs at his ribs. “You?”  
“Yeah. Ready for a break.” She coughs again, then smirks at his dazed expression. “Was it good for you?”  
Immediately Max looks apologetic. “…Too rough?”  
Furiosa makes a face at him and sits up. “Don’t be silly. I could have broken your face at least twice.”  
“Tried to break my ribs instead.” He gives a rueful grin.  
“I didn’t knee you in the balls.” She shifts closer and flings an arm around his shoulders.   
“Y’might want those working, later.” Max kisses her gently, an apology or an appeasement, it’s hard to say which.  
“Mm. My thoughts exactly.” She kisses him deeper, then gets up. “Come on. Again.”  
She’s a taskmaster.  
“Mnh?” Max’s bewildered expression says it all; he thought he _won_? At least he _thinks_ he might have. Up he stumbles anyway, predictably obedient.  
He won against her pulling her blows. Once. He’s about to find out how relentless she can be as a fighter. For the second time.  
It seems to be up to Furiosa to initiate the fight every time, but he seems a little more prepared for it at last. She’s more comfortable, increasingly, with the sparring. She hits his weak points, and occasionally barks commands. There is, long-buried in Max’s mind, some kind of fight training. She starts to notice his more practiced moves are very much designed to incapacitate without harm- police training. It’s not ineffective but it has less place in the world as it is now, where everyone is a cutthroat and hesitating to take a kill shot is risky.   
She’s trying to learn, too, even as she pushes him, and finds herself impressed by some of his moves using pressure points and holds. Once or twice she stops him to have him show her what he just did, and offers quiet praise.  
All his more vicious tactics are feral reflexes, the violent lashing out of a cornered animal, but he’s right that it takes winding him up a little now to bring it out. It’s a sign of how settled he’s become in the Citadel, that it’s no longer his first recourse. Furiosa calls for breaks in between goading and ordering him around, cuddling him tenderly each time they pause.   
For all that though, she shows him why she had the position of Imperator. She’s very good at gauging where he is mentally and physically, and pushing him far enough to drag out the feral instincts without completely shattering his control. They’re still evenly matched, but she gets up over and over, or pulls him up, until the day is hot and the sun is beating down.  
The breaks are a good tactic to keep him grounded, but as his strength starts to flag and his knee aches enough to become a liability, he starts to slip. There’s a gradual but definite increase in the desperate violence of his moves, and he seems to forget he has the power of speech. As in so many things, it seems he’ll keep going until she tells him to stop, giving her control even as his more animal side re-emerges.  
She can see his energy flagging, when he pins her again, but this time instead of snapping orders or critique, she goes boneless, calm and trusting. “Mm. Max? Would you like some water?”  
For a few heartbeats he’s utterly still, grip almost crushingly tight and breathing heavy and ragged. Then he grunts softly and lets go with slow care, backing off.  
She smiles. “Good. Stay down, breathe and relax. I’ll be back.” Rising, she fetches a canteen from where they’ve buried them in the shade to keep the water cool. She moves slow, sore and breathless, but steady, and kneels by him to uncap the bottle.   
“That’s enough for today.”  
Max has stayed, obedient as the dogs, but he stretches out his bad leg with a wince. He’s sweaty and a little twitchy with adrenaline, but he shows no fear of her at all. His left hand tremor is back with a vengeance though, the muscles of that arm weaker and more easily fatigued. She helps him to hold the bottle, as he drinks a little clumsily, then mumbles a rough, “…’M okay.”  
The adrenaline has left her feeling shaky too, but she’s steadier than he seems to be. When he’s done she sets the canteen down and pets his hair soothingly. “Good.” Her voice is low, gentle, almost a purr. “You did very well.”  
Max grunts and frowns, but leans into her touch. “Whole left side’s bad.”  
“Needs strengthening,” She acknowledges, hoping the lightning scars aren’t a hint of some deeper permanent damage. “But it’ll come back. You worked hard.” The ‘for me’ may be implied. She’s pleased. “I’m proud. You’ll get there fast.”  
He nuzzles his face against her shoulder with a sigh, content with her approval.  
“You’re the only War Pup I need,” She teases and kisses his cheek. “We can go get food when I’ve caught my breath.” Food is always a good distraction, for him.  
“’M not a Pup.” He snorts, but the mention of food does have his interest.  
“Dag and Cheedo think you’re a puppy, now.” She reminds him, laughing.  
Max rolls his eyes. “That’s different. No white paint. More hair…”  
“Different kind of pup. Got it.” She rises and offers a hand up. “I’m hungry, too. Let’s go.”  
“…And I’m pretty sure I’m over forty.” He gets up slowly, with a groan, for illustration.  
“It’s hard to tell. You look good to me, either way.” She heads downstairs slowly, limping slightly, although she notices she’s not the only one. When a passing War Boy gives them a startled look, and asks why they’re both bruised, she explains calmly they were training.   
“Don’worry.” Max adds helpfully with a jerk of his thumb. “She won.”  
Furiosa laughs, but doesn’t argue.

* * *

He’s sore, the next morning, giving her a pathetic look before rolling over to sleep in. She lets him have a day to recover, then gets him up early the next to go again. The pattern continues over several weeks, her encouraging him to spar with her every few days, and more often than not they seem to end in a draw. His left arm strength improves, and he’s faster both when she manages to trigger his instincts and when she doesn’t. Max does seem to enjoy the sparring sessions, even if he does groan a little the mornings after.   
By contrast, she doesn’t utter a complaint, partly because she feels responsible for not letting him be hampered by guilt or concern for her. She praises his efforts, trying to build him up mentally as well as physically. Subtly she’s improving too, in endurance and strength, and she copies some of his takedown moves admirably without needing to be taught.   
There’s a definite dichotomy between his more feral fighting and the old police training, some of which seems to be coming back to him, but the divide is gradually starting to blur. Each time he slips into feral instincts, he recovers his words and sense of humor faster, after.  
Furiosa is happy to encourage him, and the subtle shift toward more energetic lovemaking is a bonus. She is also subtly pleased that he continues, against all his previous habits and her expectations, to _stay._


End file.
